THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


presented  by 
Bryan 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS1819 

.H5 

L6 

1860 


t^^|j^EIR^yVj  C>r=  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 
CCCC8660282^ 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


DEEBY  & 


NEW  YOEK: 
JAOKSON,  498 
1860. 


BEOADWAY. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 
DERBY  &  JACKSON, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


W.  H.  Tinson,  Stereotyper.  Geo.  Russell  &  Co.,  Printers. 


A 

3£Ufctr*ntl2  Stt tttionztt 

TRIBUTE 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  LATE 

RT.  REV.   GEORGE   WASHINGTON  DOANE. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/louieslasttermatOOharr 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I.  page 
Beginning  Wrong,  7 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Study,  19 

CHAPTER  in. 

Cloudy,  30 

CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Sun  Comes  Out,  66 

CHAPTER  V. 

Couleur  de  Rose,  72 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Ashes  of  Roses,  93 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Louie's  Latinity,  105 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Sky  is  Red  and  Lowering,   .       .       .       .  .118 

CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Bishop,   147 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X.  page 
The  Chapel,  160 

CHAPTER  XL 

CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY,  164 

CHAPTER  XII. 

Tag,       .      .;\/  .      ....      .       .       .  181 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Frances,   196 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Gathering  Gloom,  20*7 

CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Eastern  Dawn,  227 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
In  Peace  beneath  the  Peaceful  Skies,      ....  236 


LOUIE'S  LAST  TERM 

AT  ST.  MART'S. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BEGINNING  WRONG. 

Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  up  ;  prayer  should 
Dawn  with  the  day ;  there  are  set  awful  hours 

'Twixt  heaven  and  us ;  the  manna  was  not  good 
After  sunrising :  far  day  sullies  flowers  ; 

Rise  to  prevent  the  sun  ;  sleep  doth  sins  glut, 

And  heaven's  gate  opens  when  the  world's  is  shut. 

Vaughan. 

The  chapel  bell  had  stopped  ringing  almost  five 
minutes,  when  Louie  Atterbury,  running  down  the 
long  corridor,  buttoning  her  sleeves  as  she  went, 
paused,  frightened,  at  the  door  before  she  dared 
open  it  and  enter.  Louie  was  the  last ;  the  long 
rows  of  seats  were  full  of  girls,  the  organ  had  ceased, 
Mr.  Rogers,  in  his  surplice,  was  beginning  the  ser- 
vice, and  Louie  slipped  in  through  the  smallest  pos- 

7 


8 


louie's  last  teem. 


sible  crack  in  the  door,  and  hurried  nervously  down 
the  aisle,  looking  up  very  red  and  awkward,  as  she 
caught  the  wondering  eyes  turned  upon  her. 

It  was  not  often  that  any  one  was  late.  These 
summer  mornings  the  bell  rang  at  five,  and  startled 
open  simultaneously  a  hundred  and  sixty  pairs  of 
eyes  that  had  been  shut  in  the  very  sweetest  sort  of 
sleep  during  the  long  hours  of  darkness,  and  roused 
into  murmur  the  young  hive  that  would  not  settle 
down  into  perfect  quiet  again  until  the  return  of 
night  and  darkness.  It  was  impossible  to  sleep 
through  the  ringing  of  that  chapel  bell ;  and  even 
if  the  first  peal  had  not  waked  the  girls  in  Louie's 
dormitory,  a  suggestive  shake  from  Miss  Barlow's 
not  very  gentle  hand,  would  have  accomplished  it ; 
and  having  three-quarters  of  an  hour  for  dressing, 
there  seemed  not  much  excuse  for  any  one  to  be 
behindhand  when  the  bell  rang  again.  A  quarter 
of  an  hour,  while  the  bell  was  tolling,  for  their  pri- 
vate devotions,  and  then  the  girls  in  troops  passed 
down  the  stairs  and  into  the  chapel.  Plainly  there 
was  not  much  chance  for  any  one  to  be  late ;  how 
did  it  come,  then,  that  Louie  Atterbury  was  late 
again  ? 

She  slipped  into  her  seat,  stealing  a  guilty  look 
at  Miss  Barlow  as  she  passed  in,  and  confusedly 
picked  up  her  Prayer-book  and  hunted  for  the 


BEGINNING  WRONG. 


9 


places,  doubly  embarrassed  while  she  felt  those  very 
uncomfortable  eyes  upon  her.  She  tried,  I  believe, 
to  attend  to  the  service,  and  keep  from  thinking  of 
the  reprimand  that  was  awaiting  her,  but  the  effort 
made  her  knit  her  brow  and  look  frowning  and  un- 
amiable  ;  and  it  was  not  altogether  ill-temper  that 
made  her  press  her  lips  so  tight  together,  and  bend 
her  little  Prayer-book  almost  double  in  her  nervous 
hands  as  she  rose  from  her  knees. 

Poor  Louie !  It  was  the  feeling  of  "  everything 
going  wrong,"  it  was  the  certainty  of  another  mis- 
begun  day,  another  service  unattended  to,  that  was 
darkening  her  face  so.  Everything,  indeed,  had 
gone  wrong  this  term.  "Whether  or  no  the  delights 
of  a  too  happy  vacation  had  spoiled  her  for  the  re- 
straints of  school  discipline,  or  whether  things  were 
really  altered  there,  she  did  not  know ;  but  certain 
it  was,  she  seemed  to  be  growing  worse  instead  of 
better  every  day,  to  be  getting  into  more  mischief 
than  ever,  more  out  of  favor  with  her  teachers, 
more  quarrelsome  and  unamiable  with  her  com- 
panions. 

"  Every  one's  hand  is  against  me,"  she  thought, 
bitterly,  as  she  walked  out  of  chapel,  "  and  I  can't 
help  it  if  mine  is  against  every  one.  Oh  !  how  I 
hate  it  all !" 

She  was  too  brave  a  girl  to  do  what  she  could  not 
1* 


10 


louie's  last  term. 


help  thinking  of  for  the  first  minute,  which  was,  to 
harry  out  into  the  grounds,  or  somewhere  out  of 
sight,  so  as  to  escape  Miss  Barlow  for  the  present. 
Whatever  faults  Louie  had,  and  they  were  many, 
there  was  nothing  of  the  "  sneak  "  about  her,  all  the 
girls  acknowledged.  So,  leaning  back  against  the 
door  that  opened  into  the  grounds,  she  stood  reso- 
lutely facing  the  hall,  and  in  the  way  that  Miss 
Barlow  must  come  from  the  chapel.  Groups  of 
girls  hurried  past  her  into  the  play-grounds,  where, 
in  the  pleasant  sunshine  of  the  June  morning,  they 
sauntered  in  pairs  among  the  trees,  or  ran  wild 
races  alono;  the  broad  walks. 

A  few  of  the  more  studious  had  gone  direct  to  the 
school-room  to  snatch  five  minutes  of  study  before 
breakfast ;  some  lazy  ones  hung  about  the  steps  ; 
the  hall  was  quite  deserted,  but  still  Louie  did  not 
move. 

"  Why,  how  dismal  Her  Serene  Highness  looks 
this  morning  !"  called  out  Adelaide  McFarlane  from 
the  bottom  of  the  steps,  where  she  sat  idly  twisting 
the  heads  off  the  daisies  within  her  reach,  and 
throwing  them  on  Alice  Aulay's  book,  a  little  girl 
who  had  just  seated  herself  there,  and  who  was 
vainly  trying  to  conquer  an  alarming  array  of 
"  map  questions,"  with  Julia  Alison's  help.  "  How 
dismal  she  is !    I  wonder  what  made  her  so  late  for 


BEGINNING  WRONG. 


11 


chapel  again  this  morning  ?  Barlow  looked  sweet 
at  you,  Miss  Lou,  as  you  came  down  the  aisle !  I 
suppose  you  don't  mind  it,  however.  You're  used 
to  it  by  this  time ;  and  you  don't  mind  going  to  the 
Study,  either.  How  many  times  were  you  sent 
there  last  month,  do  you  happen  to  remember?  I'd 
like  to  know,  'just  for  the  sake  of  science,'  how 
often  a  girl  can  be  sent  up  and  not  be  expelled." 

A  very  red  flush  dawned  on  Louie's  face. 

"  If  I  didn't  mind  trying  your  mean  ways  of  get- 
ting out  of  scrapes,  perhaps  I  shouldn't  go  so  often. 
Everybody  knows  Addy  McFarlane  will  keep  clear 
as  long  as  there's  any  virtue  in  fibbing,  and  any 
other  shoulders  to  put  the  blame  on." 

"  Tout  doucement  /"  cried  Addy,  with  a  shrug 
and  a  little  laugh ;  "  I  shan't  think  of  getting  out 
of  temper  with  you,  my  dear ;  for  nobody  minds 
what  girls  say  when  they're  as  mad  as  you  are,  and 
as  much  scared,  too.  Why,  Louie,  honestly,  do  you 
think  you'll  be  sent  to  the  Bishop  ?  Mr.  Rogers 
has  lectured  you  so  often,  he  must  be  about  dis- 
couraged." 

"If  I  told  you  honestly  what  I  thought,  you 
wouldn't  understand  me,  I'm  afraid.  Honesty  isn't 
your  native  language,  you  know." 

"  Listen,  Julia  Alison,  hear  how  sharp  she's  get- 
ting !    Next  time  I  want  to  write  a  spicy  composi- 


12 


louie's  last  term. 


tion,  I'll  do  something  vicious  and  get  sent  to  the 
Study,  in  hope  of  being  brightened  up  by  the  fright 
as  she  is." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  have  much  effect  upon 
you,  Addy,"  said  Julia,  quietly.  "  I  never  saw  you 
much  frightened  by  anything  yet,  nor  much  bene- 
fited, for  that  matter.  One  would  think  you  might 
know  better  than  to  hector  a  girl  in  that  way,  when 
she's  in  disgrace." 

"  Wait  till  I'm  in  it !"  cried  Louie,  too  angry  to 
know  who  were  friends  and  who  were  foes.  "  You're 
all  talking  as  if  I  were  sent  to  Mr.  Rogers ;  I  am 
no  worse  off  than  the  others  just  now.  And  because 
you  are  one  of  the  '  good  girls,'  Julia,  you  mustn't 
think  that  gives  you  license  to  preach.  I,  for  one, 
won't  stand  it." 

"  Hear !  hear  !"  exclaimed  Addy,  delighted.  "  Ju- 
lia, you  see  she's  fierce  this  morning.  I  wouldn't 
trust  myself  within  six  feet  of  her.  If  I  saw  Mr. 
Rogers,  I  think  I'd  recommend  a  muzzle." 

"  Oh,  dear !"  sighed  little  Alice  ;  "  they  wont  let 
me  study,  Julia." 

"  No  ;  I  see  they  won't,  Ally,"  said  Julia,  rising; 
"  come  into  the  school-room ;  perhaps  we  can  be 
quiet  there." 

She  passed  Louie  without  saying  another  word  or 
raising  her  eyes ;  but  there  was  something  in  her 


BEGINNING  WRONG. 


13 


averted  head  and  the  low  tone  in  which  she  had 
spoken,  that  made  Louie  turn  away  with  almost  a 
groan.  That  was  her  last  friend  alienated.  Of  all  - 
the  school,  Julia's  opinion  was  of  the  most  value  to 
her,-  and  though  of  late  they  had  been  less  together 
than  formerly,  still  there  had  been  no  open  quarrel, 
nothing  to  justify  such  an  unkind  speech  as  this  last 
one  of  Louie's. 

"  I  know  she'll  never  forget  it,"  thought  Louie, 
miserably.  "  I  would  give  anything  in  the  world 
if  I  had  never  said  it." 

Louie  was  right ;  it  would  be  a  long  time  before 
Julia  would  forget  the  insult.  She  was  proud, 
prouder,  if  possible,  than  Louie  ;  and  between  two 
such  friends  a  hopeless  wall  of  coldness  and  separa- 
tion is  soon  built  up,  from  no  broader  a  foundation 
than  this  which  Louie,  in  her  recklessness  and  an- 
ger, had  just  laid.  Julia  was  the  oldest  by  a  year ; 
the  steadiest  and  the  cleverest ;  and  the  only  won- 
der was,  why  she  had  ever  chosen  the  reckless,  self- 
willed,  harum-scarum  Louie  for  her  friend.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  see  why  Julia  had  so  attracted  Louie, 
however.  Beauty  has  generally  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  school  penchants,  and  Julia  was  very  pretty, 
rather  small,  straight,  with  a  firm,  easy  step,  and  a 
sort  of  native  dignity  of  manner  that  "  told"  vastly 
among  her  companions,  and  attracted  while  it  in- 


14 


louie's  last  term. 


sensibly  awed  them.  She  was  too  reserved  to  have 
many  intimate  friends,  and  could  not  be  called 
popular,  but  she  was  universally  admired,  and  as 
universally  looked  up  to.  At  once  diffident  and 
proud,  she  only  influenced  by  her  example.  This 
morning's  rebuke  to  Addy  was  the  nearest  approach 
to  "  preaching"  that  Julia  had  ever  made,  and  the 
cruel  taunt  it  had  brought  upon  her,  confirmed  her 
in  her  silence  and  reserve. 

What  gave  this  taunt  its  sting,  was  the  fact  that 
within  the  last  few  weeks,  Julia  had  taken  the  step 
that  in  the  eyes  of  the  more  thoughtless  of  her  com- 
panions placed  her  above  and  separated  her  from 
them,  but  in  her  own,  made  her  ten  times  more 
fearful  and  humble,  and  ten  times  more  sensitive  to 
reproach.  She  felt  most  keenly  her  own  unworthi- 
ness  to  be  ranked  among  "  the  good ;"  in  her  own 
heart  she  was  struggling  hard  to  conquer  her  temp- 
tations, and  dreaded  most  of  all  of'bringing  disgrace 
upon  the  religion  she  was  trying  to  live  by :  but 
this  struggle  and  this  humility  only  made  her  out- 
wardly colder  and  quieter  ;  and  her  companions, 
Louie  among  the  rest,  were  very  quick  to  set  it 
down  to  a  feeling  of  superiority  and  an  aversion  to 
their  society.  This  it  was  that  insensibly  had 
estranged  them.  Louie  at  heart  was  longing  to  ask 
forgiveness  for  her  constant  unkindnesses,  and  to 


BEGINNING  WRONG. 


15 


beg  for  advice  and  help,  and  to  be  told  whether  it 
would,  ever  be  possible  for  her  to  get  into  the  right 
path:  and  Julia,  hurt  at  her  coldness  and  fright- 
ened by  her  growing  recklessness  and  self-will,  was 
yet  fonder  of  her  than  ever,  and  yearned  to  lead  her 
right  and  to  win  her  to  the  only  means  of  self-con- 
trol and  happiness ;  but  both  waited  for  the  other 
to  speak  first,  both  were  too  proud  to  make  a  sin- 
gle advance. 

Addy  McFarlane  laughed  spitefully  as  she  saw 
the  expression,  of  pain  that  contracted  Louie's  fore- 
head. 

"  What  a  pity,"  looking  slily  up  at  her  face,  "  what 
a  pity  that  Julia  is  giving  you  up  !  She's  such  a 
model,  she  might  have  done  you  no  end  of  good, 
and  kept  you  straight,  for  a  while,  at  least." 

"  You'd  better  say,  what  a  pity  I  have  given  her 
up,"  said  Louie,  quickly.  "  I  hate  sanctified  supe- 
riority, and  Julia  knows  it,  and  knows  that  I  will 
not  endure  her  patronizing  ways.  I  can  see,"  she 
went  on,  "  by  the  way  your  eyes  glisten,  that  you 
mean  to  tell  her  every  word.  You're  welcome  to ; 
and  except  that  I  know  she  won't  believe  anything 
you  say,  I  would  tell  you  what  else  I  think  of  her, 
and  let  you  carry  that  too." 

"  You'd  better  take  care ;  you'll  be  sorry  for  one 
01  two  things  you've  said  this  morning,"  returned 


16  lotjie's  last  teem. 

i 

Adelaide,  in  a  tone  a  shade  less  trifling  than  ordi- 
nary ;  but  at  this  moment,  Miss  Barlow,  leaving  the 
group  of  teachers  with  whom  she  had  been  talking 
at  the  chapel  door,  approached  them  and  paused 
before  Louie. 

Of  all  the  moments  that  could  have  been  chosen 
to  reprimand  her,  at  least  for  the  purpose  of  bene- 
fiting her,  this  was  the  very  worst,  and  perhaps  a 
more  judicious  teacher  would  have  perceived  it. 
But  Miss  Barlow  was  too  much  irritated  and  too 
much  prejudiced  to  see  this.  She  meant  to  humble 
and  discipline  a  refractory  pupil ;  she  did  not  reflect 
how  far  the  desire  to  do  it  proceeded  from  a  wish  to 
gratify  her  own  pique,  rather  than  from  a  desire  to 
do  her  duty  faithfully  toward  one  of  the  children 
committed  to  her  care.  At  that  moment,  any  one 
familiar  with  Louie's  face  could  have  seen  that  she 
was  suffering  cruelly  from  wounded  pride,  from 
mortification  and  remorse;  that  there  were  evil 
passions  enough  roused  in  her  soul  already,  without 
summoning  any  more  to  the  field,  without  exaspe- 
rating her  to  the  obstinacy  and  insubordination  and 
disrespect  that  were  certain  to  follow  a  reprimand  de- 
livered at  such  a  time.  Besides,  Adelaide  McFarlane 
was  her  acknowledged  enemy  and  tormentor,  and 
sat  by  now,  with  greedy  eyes,  watching  the  encoun- 
ter, and  her  presence,  of  course,  was  an  irritation. 


BEGINNING  WRONG. 


17 


I  do  not  mean  to  make  any  excuses  for  Louie ; 
there  is  no  need  for  me  to  hold  up  her  faults  for 
execration ;  they  punished  themselves  every  step 
she  took ;  no  one  could  fail  to  see  how  miserable 
she  was,  and  there  is  no  danger  of  her  having  any 
followers,  merely  for  the  pleasure  her  career  pro- 
mised. What  I  wish  to  do  is  to  be  just ;  to  show 
how  many  influences  were  at  work  to  lead  her  so 
far  astray.  1  do  .not  wish  wholly  to  blame  Miss 
Barlow ;  she  meant  well,  and  in  the  main  did  her 
duty  as  a  teacher;  but  toward  this  girl  she  had 
allowed  herself  to  be  too  easily  prejudiced,  and  had 
not  taken  the  pains  to  sift  her- feelings  and  inquire 
into  their  justice.  Miss  Barlow  had  not  brought  her 
own  temper  under  entire  control,  so  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  she  failed  to  control  her  pupil ;  and 
when  she  paused  in  front  of  her,  there  was  an  angry 
gleam  from  her  black  eye,  and  an  excited  tremor 
in  her  voice,  that  certainly  were  not  calculated  to 
soothe  ruffled  tempers  or  insure  complete  submission. 

"  How  do  you  explain  your  tardiness  again  this 
morning,  Louisa  ?"  There  was  a  moment's  pause  ; 
Louie  tried  to  answer,  but  the  words  choked  her. 
She  was  literally  too  much  worked  up  to  command 
her  voice. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  answer  me?"  demanded  the 
teacher  in  a  sharper  tone. 


IS 


louie's  last  term. 


Louie  caught  a  glance  of  Adelaide's  eager  eye ; 
she  gave  a  sort  of  gasp  and  said  quickly  : 

"  I  have  no  explanation  to  give." 

"  Think  again  before  you  make  that  decisive  ;  it 
will  be  worse  for  you  than  you  imagine  if  you  con- 
tinue to  rebel." 

"  It  can't  be  worse  for  me  than  it  has  been  for 
the  last  month,"  muttered  Louie  under  her  breath. 

"  Once  for  all,"  said  Miss  Barlow  in  a  tone  of 
suppressed  anger,  and  looking  steadily  at  her,  "  do 
you  mean  to  explain  to  me  the  circumstance  of 
your  tardiness  this  morning  ?" 

"  I  do  not." 

There  was  the  deadest  silence ;  Adelaide  held  her 
breath  with  excitement,  the  teacher  with  anger ; 
Louie  alone  was  composed  enough  now.  All  the 
wavering  and  timidity  was  gone,  she  had  not  a 
thought  that  was  not  hatred  and  rebellion. 

"  Go  to  the  Study  at  once,"  was  all  that  Miss 
Barlow  could  find  voice  to  say,  as  she  motioned 
her  away. 

Louie  bowed  slightly  as  she  left  her,  and  with  a 
very  firm  step  walked  across  the  hall,  and  entered 
the  Study  door. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  STUDY. 

"  Anger's  a  hurricane  inbred ; 
Meekness,  a  calm  in  heart  and  head ; 
Revenge,  of  war  runs  all  the  ills ; 
Forgiveness,  sweets  of  peace  instills." 

Bishop  Ken. 

The  precise  nature  of  the  punishment  implied  in 
the  sentence  of  banishment  to  the  Study,  may  pos- 
sibly need  explanation  to  those  whose  misfortune  it 
has  been  not  to  have  been  educated  at  St.  Mary's 
Hall.  "When  I  confess  that  its  terrors  were  more 
imaginary  than  substantial,  it  will  be  understood 
that  I  look  back  at  it  from  some  distance  of  time, 
and  with  the  disenchantment  of  several  years  be- 
tween it  and  me.  During  the  entire  period  of  my 
•school  career,  however,  I  stood  in  a  very  salutary 
awe  of  its  thunders,  and  regarded  the  sentence  with 
all  the  dread  that  it  was  meant  to  inspire. 

In  plain  fact,  the  Study  was  a  very  large  and 
commodious  room,  somewhat  dark,  perhaps,  and 
not  altogether  cheerful,  filled  with  bookcases  and 

19 


20 


louie's  last  teem. 


books,  and  having  a  very  learned  look  withal,  pre- 
sided over  by  the  Chaplain  of  the  Hall,  in  my  time 
a  most  humane  and  kind  gentleman,  and  one 
against  whom  an  act  of  severity  or  injustice  had 
never  been  recorded.  lie  was  very  ready  to  ex- 
cuse youthful  faults,  and  decreed  for  all  ordinary 
offences,  very  mild  and  bearable  punishments,  re- 
ferring the  extremest  cases  to  the  Bishop's  decision. 
The  result  of  being  sent  to  the  Study,  in  fine,  was, 
generally,  fifteen  minutes'  interview  with  this 
gentleman,  a  good  deal  of  good  advice,  a  little  kind 
expostulation  on  the  impropriety  of  the  fault  for 
which  the  offender  was  arraigned,  a  recommenda- 
tion to  the  mercy  of  the  Principal,  and  a  "good 
morning." 

Notwithstanding  this  known  result,  being  sent  to 
the  Study  was  always  a  horrible  and  disgraceful 
thing ;  the  stoutest  hearts  quaked  a  little  at  it ;  it 
threw  the  timid  ones  into  an  agony  of  alarm  and 
apprehension,  and  all  agreed  to  look  with  some  pity 
and  much  contempt  upon  the  unhappy  subjects  of 
the  decree.  Thus  it  was,  that  as  Louie  Atterbury 
walked  across  the  hall  toward  the  Study  door,  she 
heard  with  some  concern  the  ringing  of  the  break- 
fast-bell, and  the  rush  of  feet  that  followed  it  in- 
stantly. She  was  too  proud  to  hurry ;  the  foremost 
ones  caught  sight  of  her,  and  too  proud  to  shut  the 


THE  STUDY. 


21 


Study  door  after  her,  so  the  bolder  ones,  hearing 
the  rumor  of  her  disgrace,  stole  on  tip-toe  half 
across  the  hall  and  peeped  in  at  her.  She  had 
seated  herself  on  a  chair  by  the  window,  and  when 
she  saw  the  prying  faces  of  her  tormentors,  she 
bit  her  lip  ;  but,  forcing  back  the  tears,  gave  them 
a  careless  nod  and  smile. 

Mr.  Eogers,  passing  that  moment  on  his  way  to 
breakfast,  looked  in  upon  her ;  he  saw  the  nocl  and 
smile,  and  his  face  darkened.  No  one  in  authority, 
however  kind,  can  endure  to  see  his  authority 
mocked  at  and  derided. 

"  You  may  wait  here  till  I  come  back,"  he  said, 
coldly. 

Louie  listened  to  the  tramp  of  feet  down  the  din- 
ing-room stairs ;  how  long  before  it  ceased !  then 
the  pause  while  grace  was  said ;  then  the  sudden 
noise  of  the  adjustment  and  occupation  of  all  that 
multitude  of  chairs,  and  soon  the  subdued  sounds 
of  knife  and  fork  as  the  besieging  army  of  hungry 
girls  applied  themselves  to  their  repast.  Louie 
thought  of  the  inquiring  eyes  that  would  be  turned 
toward  her  empty  place. 

"There  isn't  a  soul  in  school  that  won't  know  I'm 
sent  to  the  Study,  before  ten  minutes  are  over,"  she 
thought,  dismally,  "  and,  moreover,  that  it's  the 
second  time  this  month.    A  pretty  sort  of  name 


22 


louie's  last  term. 


I'm  getting !  "Well,  I  can't  help  it ;  I  don't 
care." 

And  she  pressed  her  lips  tighter  together,  and, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair,  beat  uneasily  with  her 
foot  upon  the  carpet,  and  muttered  again  with  a 
darkened  brow,  "  I  don't  care." 

Poor  Louie !  If  she  hadn't  cared,  she  would 
never  have  worn  such  a  face  as  she  wore  then ;  she 
wouldn't  have  bit  her  pale  lips  so,  nor  have  beaten 
that  nervous  tatto  upon  the  carpet.  She  did  care, 
and  bitterly,  too,  about  the  bad  name  she  was  get- 
ting ;  but  she  did  not  care  in  the  right  sort  of  a 
way,  nor  try  the  right  sort  of  means  to  prevent  it. 
Pride  and  self-will  had  brought  it  upon  her,  and  by 
pride  and  self-will  she  was  trying  (as  far  as  she 
tried  at  all)  to  get  rid  of  it.  Alice  Aulay,  eight 
years  old,  could  have  told  her  that  that  was  not  the 
way  ;  any  girl  in  the  school  could  have  told  her  that 
two  wrongs  didn't  make  a  right ;  her  own  heart,  if  she 
had  listened  to  it,  could  have  told  her  that  humility 
and  self-denial  were  the  opposites  of  pride  and  self- 
will  ;  and  that  only  by  renouncing  these  and  assuming 
those,  could  she  attain  to  the  favor  of  God  and  man. 

But  she  didn't  listen  to  it.  She  went  blindly, 
blunderingly,  obstinately  on,  listening  to  the  tumult 
of  evil  thoughts  that  beset  her — to  the  evil  sugges- 
tions of  her  companions  and  the  evil  suggestions  of 


THE  STUDY. 


23 


the  devil,  and  the  faint  voice  of  conscience  was  stifled 
before  it  reached  her  ear.  Sometimes,  in  the  hush 
of  the  Chapel  service,  or  when  she  saw  her  young 
companions  kneel  around  the  altar  that  she  hardly 
dared  look  upon,  there  would  come  a  memory  of 
her  baptismal  blessings — a  thought  of  what  she  had 
been  made,  and  what  she  ought  even  now  to  be ; 
but  a  bitter  sigh  would  blot  it  all  out. 

"I  need  not  try  to  be  good.  I  have  tried  and 
failed  so  often.  I  cannot  go  with  Julia  and  the 
others.  I  am  growing  worse  instead  of  better.  I 
must  be,  oh,  how  different  before  I  am  fit  for  the 
Communion  !  It  will  be  long,  if  ever,  before  I  am 
good  enough  to  go ;  but  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  can- 
not help  it  if  I  am  wicked ;  I  cannot  help  it  if  I  am 
worse  than  they  are." 

And  so,  trying  to  satisfy  herself  that  it  was  not 
her  fault,  she  went  on  in  the  wrong  ways  that  had 
been  thickening  round  her  of  late,  unsatisfied  and 
very  miserable,  but  very  unrepentant. 

"When  Mr.  Eogers,  accompanied  by  Miss  Bar- 
low, entered  the  Study  half  an  hour  later,  they 
found  as  unhopeful  a  subject  in  it  as  they  had  left. 
If  Mr.  Eogers  had  been  alone,  Louie  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  be  submissive,  and  apologize  and  tell 
him  all  he  desired  to  know;  but  when  the  door 
opened  and  his  grave  face  appeared,  preceded  by 


24 


louie's  last  term. 


the  face  that  was  associated  in  her  mind  with  all 
the  stormy  scenes  she  had  gone  through  in  the  last 
year,  the  good  resolution,  founded  as  it  was  in  only 
another  form  of  self-will,  faded  quickly,  and  a  stub- 
born rebellion  took  possession  of  her.  All  Mr. 
Rogers'  kindness  was  forgotten  in  the  recollection 
of  Miss  Barlow's  injustice;  she  could  see  nothing 
but  tyranny,  feel  nothing  but  defiance. 

I  think  Miss  Barlow  comprehended  this  at  a 
glance,  for  her  thin  lip  curled  slightly,  and  her 
sharp  eye  emitted  an  angry  light.  "I  fear  you  will 
have  to  resort  to  harsher  measures,  Mr.  Rogers," 
she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Harsh  measures  are  very  disagreeable  to  me," 
he  answered  aloud,  "and  I  shall  not  willingly 
have  recourse  to  them ;  but  I  suppose  there  is  no 
girl  in  this  school  so  ignorant  of  right  and  justice 
as  to  suppose  that  rebellion  to  lawful  authority  will 
be  tolerated  in  it.  Kindness  and  indulgence  must 
have  a  limit,  or  they  are  abused." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Louie,  quickly,  "and  prejudice 
and  persecution  must  have  a  limit,  or  they  are 
abused." 

The  blood  started  to  Miss  Barlow's  cheek,  and 
she  looked  from  Louie  to  the  clergyman  as  if  to 
say,  "You  see,  sir,  it  is  as  I  said." 

Mr.  Rogers  did  not  regard  the  glance,  but  eon- 


THE  STUDY. 


25 


tinued  to  look  sternly  at  the  girl,  sternly  but 
thoughtfully. 

"  You  cannot  doubt  but  that  I  am  as  ready  to 
put  down  persecution  and  oppression,  as  to  punish 
disrespect  and  insubordination.  You  have  been 
accused  more  than  once  of  the  last,  and  you  know 
it  forms  the  present  charge  against  you.  Let  us 
settle  that  matter  first,  and  then  whatever  com- 
plaints you  have  to  make  of  injustice  and  persecu- 
tion, I  am  ready  to  hear  and  to  endeavor  to  redress. 
Now  for  the  question  in  hand. 

"  You  are  aware,  Louisa,  that  this  is  by  no  means 
the  first  time  that  I  have  had  complaints  brought 
me  of  you.  I  have  always  treated  you  with  the 
greatest  consideration  and  kindness  when  I  have 
been  obliged  to  reprimand  you,  hoping  by  that 
means  to  win  you  to  a  wiser  course.  Those  mea- 
sures, I  see,  have  entirely  failed,  and  I  must  try 
another  method  with  you.  Now,  I  wish  you  dis- 
distinctly  to  understand,  before  we  go  any  further, 
that  I  mean  to  establish  Miss  Barlow's  authority, 
and  that  obedience  to  her  is  to  be  ail  that  will  save 
you  from  severity.  She  tells  me  that  you  have  re- 
fused to  answer  her  questions  in  regard  to  a  breach 
of  rules  this  morning.  The  fewer  words  we  waste 
now  the  better :  I  ask  you,  therefore,  do  you  con- 
tinue to  refuse  an  explanation  to  her?" 

2 


2d 


louie's  last  term. 


Louie  glanced  an  instant  at  Miss  Barlow,  and  her 
resolution  was  fixed. 

"I  will  explain  it  to  you,  sir.  I  will  not  explain 
it  to  Miss  Barlow." 

There  was  a  pair  of  very  angry,  and  a  pair  of 
very  stern  eyes  bent  on  the  girl  for  several  minutes 
after  she  said  this,  but  she  did  not  tremble  nor 
falter,  though  she  heard  in  a  sort  of  bewildered 
dream  the  words  that  followed.  She  hardly  under- 
stood their  import,  though  she  mechanically  obeyed 
them,  leaving  the  room  and  going  "up  to  her  dormi- 
tory where  she  was  to  stay  through  the  day.  Mr. 
Rogers'  last  sentence  as  she  left  the  study,  sounded 
in  her  ears : 

"  I  give  you  till  to-morrow  morning  to  think  it 
over.  By  that  time  I  trust  you  will  have  concluded 
to  obey  me,  and  to  submit  to  the  authority  of  your 
teacher." 

"  I  will  die  first !"  muttered  Louie  between  her 
teeth  as  she  shut  the  dormitory  door  firmly,  and 
walked  through  the  long  empty  room  to  her  own 
bed  which  stood  beside  the  window  at  the  extreme 
end.  "  I  will  die  before  I  submit  to  her !  Let 
them  expel  me,  if  they  please.  I  don't  care  much 
what  they  do  to  me,  nor  what  becomes  of  me.  As 
well  be  expelled  as  stay  here,  where  nobody  respects 
me,  and  nobody  thinks  of  loving  me  !" 


THE  STUDY. 


27 


She  leaned  against  the  window  and  looked  out. 
The  light  fell  flickeringly  on  the  grassy  bank 
through  the  waving  branches  of  the  great  trees  be- 
fore the  house,  and  the  river  gleamed  bright  and 
blue  in  the  sunshine.  The  soft  June  wind,  sweet 
with  neighboring  flowers,  blew  in  at  the  open  win- 
dow, and  stirred  the  leaves  of  Louie's  little  Bible 
that  lay  on  the  sill.  She  glanced  down  at  it  a  mo- 
ment, and  her  eye  fell  on  the  words  written  on  the 
blank  leaf,  fluttering  now  in  the  wind, 

U  LOUIE  ATTERBURY,  FROM  HER  MOTHER." 

A  blinding  mist  of  tears  came  between  her  and  the 
words.  "  What  would  mother  say  if  she  knew  of 
this !  and  little  Larry,  who  thinks  I  am  so  good  !" 

And  choking  with  sobs,  she  threw  herself  upon 
the  bed  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow.  But 
there  was  no  danger  that  her  mother  would  know 
of  her  disgrace;  no  danger  and  no  hope -either. 
Thousands  of  miles  of  ocean  rolled  between  her  and 
her  child,  and  Louie's  trial  would  be  many  weeks  old 
before  her  mother  could  hear  of  it,  would  have 
settled  her  in  sin  or  brought  her  to  repentance  be- 
fore her  mother  could,  by  counsel  or  entreaty,  help 
her  to  see  the  right.  She  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
anything  but  her  mother's  prayers  now,  poor  girl, 
but  she  had  sore  need  of  them. 


28 


louie's  last  term. 


It  had  been,  indeed,  almost  like  death,  the  part- 
ing a  year  before  between  Louie  and  her  mother. 
A  child  more  petted  and  indulged,  more  necessary 
to  a  parent,  more  companionable  and  devoted,  had 
never  lived.  Cruel  as  the  separation  was  to  Louie, 
no  doubt  it  came  harder  to  the  mother,  for  besides 
the  pain  of  living  without  her,  there  were  heavy 
fears  for  the  effect  it  might  have  upon  her  child. 
These  were  the  most  dangerous  years  of  her  life, 
and  Louie  was  a  child  to  love  wTith  a  pain  at  your 
heart,  a  love  compounded  of  foreboding  and  yearn- 
ing, and  tenderness  was  the  love  that  she  inspired. 
The  very  qualities  that  made  you  love  her,  created 
a  dread  as  well. 

But  a  stronger  duty  than  her  child's  guidance, 
even,  called  the  mother  away.  Captain  Atterbury 
had  been  ordered  to  the  coast  of  the  Mediterranean, 
and  there  was  no  question  about  her  duty  in  follow- 
ing him.  She  had  taken  Larry,  her  little  son,  with 
her,  leaving  Louie  at  the  school  in  which  she  had 
the  most  confidence,  with  many  pangs  to  be  sure, 
but  writh  an  entire  faith  that,  as  she  had  done  as 
nearly  right  as  she  knew,  all  would  go  on  right. 
But  for  several  months  Louie  had  taken  it  dreadfully 
to  heart.  She  had  been,  par  excellence  "  the  home- 
sick girl "  of  the  school,  had  moped  and  pined  till 
those  who  had  the  care  of  her  had  really  feared  for 


THE  STUDY. 


29 


her  health.  At  last,  however,  her  natural  spirits 
and  the  kindness  and  consideration  of  those  around 
her,  won  her  back  to  her  ordinary  lightheadedness 
and  vivacity ;  and  the  direful  homesickness  and 
depression  of  the  first  separation  only  occasionally 
returned — sometimes,  when  the  long-looked-for  let- 
ters revived  it  for  the  moment  by  their  tenderness, 
or  when  the  harshness  of  any  of  those  around  her, 
or  some  fit  of  self-reproach,  brought  to  her  mind 
too  vividly  the  care  and  companionship  she  had 
lost. 

"  Oh !  if  I  could  be  with  mother  I  should  not  be 
so  bad,  I  know !  I  know  I  should  be  good !"  she 
sobbed,  as  she  lay  face  downward  on  the  bed.  The 
tears  did  her  good ;  they  carried  away  half  the 
stubbornness  in  her  heart.  I  don't  know  how  long 
she  laid  there,  sobbing  as  she  thought  of  her 
mother's  goodness  and  her  own  wickedness,  resolv- 
ing and  re-resolving  that  indeed  she  would  be  bet- 
ter ;  before,  exhausted  with  excitement  and  faint  for 
want  of  food,  she  yielded  to  the  sleep  that  came 
over  her,  and  dreamed  sweet  dreams  of  mother  and 
Larry,  and  forgot  school  and  trouble  as  much  as  if 
she  had  indeed  been  with  them  in  their  pleasant 
Italian  home. 

Her  sleep  was  long  and  heavy,  even  the  Chapel 
bell  at  noon  did  not  wake  her,  nor  the  opening  of  the 


so 


louie's  last  term. 


door  just  after,  and  the  cautious  entrance  of  Ade- 
laide McFarlane  into  the  room.  Her  bed  was  next 
but  one  to  Louie's,  and  she  stole  quietly  along  to  it, 
looking  with  wonder  and  a  sort  of  malice  at  the 
quiet  sleeper.  Addy's  eyes  were  very  light  blue, 
and  they  ordinarily  had  but  a  faint  expression  of 
anything  in  them ;  but  on  this  occasion  they  gleamed 
with  some  very  decided  feeling.  Hatred,  I  think, 
wras  the  sentiment  they  conveyed  just  then,  deter- 
mined hatred,  and  a  shade  of  disappointment  and 
chagrin.  She  had  fancied  Louie  had  been  kept  in 
the  Study  all  the  morning  or  had  been  sent  to  the 
Bishop,  and  here  she  found  her  sleeping  quietly  in 
the  dormitory,  with  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  a 
happy  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  I'll  pay  you  yet,  miss,  for  what  you  said  this 
morning,"  she  whispered,  as  she  leaned  on  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  gazed  at  her.  "  Some  way  'ill  turn 
up ;  I'll  make  you  sorry  for  it  yet." 

A  way  turned  up  very  soon ;  the  devil  isn't  slow 
in  giving  work  to  those  who  are  waiting  for  it. 

After  Addy  had  gazed  her  fill  at  her  unconscious 
enemy,  she  turned  away  and  applied  herself  to 
what  had  brought  her  up  to  the  dormitory  at  this 
unusual  time  of  day.  She  opened  her  trunk 
cautiously,  took  out  a  book,  and  shutting  it  again, 
went  over  and  seated  herself  by  the  window,  and, 


THE  STUDY. 


31 


secreting  the  book  in  her  apron  very  dexterously,  and 
leaning  her  head  on  her  hand,  she  was  soon  lost  in 
the  perusal  of  it.  The  fact  was,  novels  were  contre 
les  regies  at  St.  Mary's  Hall — that  is,  indiscriminate 
and  second-rate  novels  were.  The  "Waverleys  and 
some  other  standard  works  of  fiction  were  in  the 
Hall  library,  to  which  the  girls  had  always  access. 
But  the  reading  of  the  promiscuous  yellow-covered 
literature  with  which  the  country  is  flooded,  was 
most  strictly  and  most  righteously  forbidden,  and 
in  the  decree  all  the  right-minded  girls  in  the  school 
acquiesced.  There  were  some,  however,  who  still 
clung  fondly  to  the  u  Lost  Heiress,"  the  "  Deserted 
Bride,"  a  "Heart  Unmasked,"  and  others  of  the 
same  stamp. 

Adelaide  was  among  their  warmest  advocates, 
and  had  come  back  this  term  well  supplied  with 
this  contraband  literature,  which  she  had  quietly 
circulated  among  intimate  and  appreciative  friends. 
Several  volumes  had  been  discovered  in  their  hands 
and  confiscated,  but,  of  course,  they  were  too 
"honorable"  to  betray  the  real  owner,  and  Ade- 
laide had  entirely  escaped  suspicion.  Indeed,  she 
had  a  peculiar  talent  for  escaping — perhaps  we  may 
call  it  her  only  talent,  her  only  shining  one,  at 
least ;  but  it  did  her  good  service — helped  her  to 
maintain  a  fair  standing  in  the  school — to  keep 


32 


louie's  last  term. 


"  in  "  with  her  teachers,  and  with  the  girls,  on  amic- 
able terms,  if  not  in  actual  friendship. 

"  It's  my  opinion,"  cried  one  of  her  wretched  ac- 
complices in  a  down  town  expedition,  who  had  been 
detected  and  brought  to  justice,  "that  if  the  whole 
world  should  burn  up,  Addy  McFarlane  would 
stand  without  a  hair  singed !" 

That  was  a  little  extravagant,  perhaps,  but  really 
it  did  seem  to  describe  the  case  pretty  well.  She 
seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life — to  be  invulnerable 
to  justice — unattainable  by  malice;  she  slipped 
through  the  teachers'  fingers,  worked  her  way 
silently  out  of  scrapes,  did  an  immense  deal  of  mis- 
chief in  the  school,  and  was  very  comfortable  and 
complacent  as  she  went  along. 

The  bell  rang.  "  There,  I  must  go,"  she  thought, 
regretfully,  as  she  rose  slowly,  and,  reading  as  she 
went,  walked  toward  her  trunk.  Half-way  across 
the  room  she  stopped,  too  much  absorbed  to  give 
up  the  book.  The  heroine  was  eloping;  she  was 
stealing  down  past  her  cruel  parents'  door  to  her 
faithful  Everard's  arms ;  a  travelling  carriage  stood 
behind  a  clump  of  trees,  not  five  minutes'  walk 
from  the  house  ;  the  night  was  black  and  starless ; 
oh !  would  she  get  down  safe ! 

When  —  Adelaide  gave  a  violent  start  —  the 
handle  of  the  door  turned,  not  the  door  of  the 


THE  STUDY. 


33 


heroine's  parents'  room,  but,  which  concerned  her 
much  more  nearly,  her  own  proper,  particular  dor- 
mitory-door;  and  quick  as  a  flash  she  threw  the 
book  on  the  bed  nearest  which  she  stood  ;  it  was 
Louie's ;  she  gave  it  a  push  that  sent  it  within  three 
inches  of  her  hand,  sprung  across  to  her  own  bed, 
and  before  Miss  Barlow  was  fairly  in  the  room, 
was  kneeling  tranquilly  before  her  trunk,  with  half 
its  contents  spread  on  the  floor  beside  her,  busily 
engaged  in  arranging  and  assorting  a  pile  of  under- 
clothes. 

"  Why,  Adelaide !  Is  that  you?  I  did  not  see 
you.  What  are  you  doing  up  here  at  this  hour  ? 
The  bell  has  rung." 

"  I  know  it,  ma'am,  and  I  am  hurrying  as  fast  as 
I  can.  I  came  up  for  a  clean  handkerchief,  and  I 
found  my  trunk  in  such  disorder  that  I  couldn't 
help  stopping  to  fix  it  a  little.  I  put  it  in  order 
last  Saturday ;  I  don't  see  how  I've  managed  to 
tumble  it  so." 

The  teacher  gave  her  neatness  an  approving 
smile;  none  of  the  others  thought  of  arranging 
theirs  oftener  than  once  a  week,  and  only  then  by 
compulsion.  It  w^s  really  quite  delightful  to  see  a 
girl  who  cared  at  all  about  the  order  her  things 
were  in,  and  Miss  Barlow  said  as  much.  Addy 
took  the  praise  demurely,  and  looked  much  grati- 

2* 


louie's  last  term. 


fied,  hurrying  through  the  undertaking,  neverthe- 
less, with  all  convenient  speed.  Before  she  had 
accomplished  it,  however,  and  reached  the  door, 
Miss  Barlow  had  accomplished  what  she  considered 
the  detection  of  the  unlucky  Louie's  guilt. 

Miss  Barlow's  expression  on  seeing  the  quiet, 
easy  sleep  of  the  culprit,  was  not  as  entirely  unlike 
Adelaide's,  when  she  first  witnessed  the  same 
phenomenon,  as  Miss  Barlow's  admirers  could  have 
wished.  It  did  not  seem  to  gratify  her  at  all ;  in- 
deed, I  may  say,  she  looked  as  if  she  was  very 
much  exasperated,  and  as  if  she  thought  it  sheer 
impertinence  in  Louie  to  forget  her  troubles  in  sleep, 
and  a  shameful  perversion  of  the  ends  of  justice. 

It  is  also  unpleasant  to  acknowledge,  but  there 
was  something  very  like  a  gleam  of  triumph  in 
her  eyes  as  they  lit  on  the  book  which  had  ap- 
parently but  just  slipped  from  the  sleeper's  hand. 
You  know  it  is  so  pleasant  to  find  we  have  not  been 
mistaken.  Such  an  occurrence  as  this  seems  a 
direct  compliment  to  our  sagacity — a  confirmation 
of  our  best  opinion  of  our  own  penetration.  We 
must  not  blame  Miss  Barlow  too  much  for  her 
complacency  in  this  matter. 

"  I  thought  as  much,"  she  murmured,  as  she  read 
the  title.  "  I  have  seen  for  some  time  past  the 
working  of  this  poisonous  stuff  in  her  mind.  Thit> 


THE  STUDY. 


35 


explains  all.  Adelaide,"  she  continued,  aloud,  "  do 
you  know  how  Louie  came  by  this  book  ?"  holding 
it  up. 

Adelaide  shook  her  head.  "  I  have  seen  it  lying 
around  for  some  time,  ma'am,  but  1  couldn't  say 
precisely  where  it  came  from.  Louie  brought  some 
books  back  with  her,  I  know." 

"  Others  of  this  description,  do  you  mean  ?" 

Adelaide  looked  down.  "  I  am  not  much  with 
Louie,  ma'am.  I  do  not  know  a  great  deal  about 
her  reading  or  anything  she  does.  I  can't  say  pre- 
cisely anything  about  her  books." 

"  I  see  how  it  is ;  you  are  unwilling  to  expose 
her.  I  respect  the  feeling  you  have,  and  shall  not 
press  the  matter  now,  but  if  I  am  obliged  to  call 
you  up  about  it,  I  shall  expect  you  to  tell  me  the 
whole  truth.  However  unpleasant  it  may  be,  you 
must  remember  it  will  be  your  duty." 

Adelaide  bowed  and  hurried  out.  This  idea  was 
exactly  the  one  she  had  meant  to  convey  to  Miss 
Barlow,  and  she  entered  the  schoolroom  with  quite 
a  radiant  expression;  it  was  wonderful  how  well 
things  had  worked. 

Meantime,  Miss  Barlow  had  placed  the  book 
under  lock  and  key,  and  after  lingering  a  moment 
by  the  sleeping  girl  as  if  she  longed  to  bring  her 
back  to  reality  again,  she  turned  and  left  the  room ; 
and  Louie  slept  quietly  on. 


CHAPTER  in. 


CLOUDY. 

"  Oil !  'tis  easy 
44  To  beget  great  deeds  ;  but  in  the  rearing  of  tliera — 
The  threading  in  cool  blood  each  mean  detail, 
And  furze-brake  of  half  pertinent  circumstance — 
There  lies  the  self-denial. " 

KlNGSLEY* 

The  Study  again,  if  you  please,  but  this  time 

with  more  august  occupants.    Teachers'  meeting 

was  just  over;  the  Bishop,  patient  and  attentive, 

had  for  the  last  two  hours  listened  to  the  reports, 

suggestions  and  complaints  of  some  twenty-five 

teachers,  male  and  female ;  had  entered  calmly,  and 

thoughtfully  into  the  merits  of  each  case,  advised, 

arranged,  revised,  with  clearness  and  precision ;  had 

bent  his  mind  as  entirely  to  the  settling  of  the 

slightest  of  the  many  slight  difficulties  that  arose, 

as  if  his  mind  had  had  no  other  cares  or  plans  upon 

it ;  as  if  this  school,  and  the  government  of  it, 

were  the  sole  duties  of  his  life,  instead  of  being,  as 

was  the  truth,  about  the  fiftieth  part  of  that  which 

came  upon  him  daily, 
sc 


CLOUDY. 


37 


There  was  a  little  weariness  in  the  gesture,  per- 
haps, as  leaning  back  in  his  chair  as  the  last  one 
left  the  room,  he  passed  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head and  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  Only  a 
moment,  however,  for  looking  up,  he  said  to  Mr. 
Rogers,  who  had  remained : 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  moment  before  I  go, 
about  one  of  the  children  whose  expression  I  have 
noticed  lately.  I  do  not  like  it,  it  is  very  unhappy 
and  haggard  for  one  of  her  age.  Do  yon  know 
anything  about  her — Louisa  Atterbury  ?" 

"It  was  of  her  I  wished  to  speak  to  you.  She 
has  not  been  brought  particularly  under  my  notice 
till  lately.  Last  term,  which  was  her  first,  she  was 
an  average  good  girl,  did  very  well  in  her  studies, 
and  always  had  a  tolerable,  though  never  very  high 
mark  for  conduct.  But  this  summer,  the  com- 
plaints of  her  bad  temper  and  unruliness,  have  been 
uncomfortably  frequent,  and  she  has  fallen  off  too, 
in  attention  to  her  studies.  The  teacher  who  has 
charge  of  the  dormitory  she  is  in,  indeed,  has  been 
to  me  several  times  with  complaints,  about  the  jus- 
tice of  which,  I  think,  there  can  be  no  doubt." 

"  And  none  about  their  judiciousness  ?  She  is  in 
Miss  Barlow's  dormitory,  if  I  remember  right,  and 
I  have  sometimes  feared  that  Miss  Barlow  had  not 
quite  the  self-control  and  discretion  that  hei  office 


ss 


LOUIE'S   LAST  TERM. 


needs.  However,  perhaps  there  has  been  no  want 
of  them  in  this  ease.  I  cannot  judge.  You  say  the 
girl  has  been  self-willed  and  rebellious  T 

Mr.  Rogers  briefly  related  the  occurrence  of  the 
morning,  and  added,  that  he  rather  feared  for  the 
result  of  the  reprieve ;  he  thought  that  she  could 
not  be  brought  to  apologize  and  explain  to  Miss 
Barlow ;  he  thought  he  saw  that  much  in  her  eyes 
when  she  left  the  room.  And  in  case  of  her  con- 
tinued refusal,  of  course,  there  was  nothing  for  him 
to  do  but  to  send  her  officially  to  him.  the  Bishop, 
for  judgment  and  reproof. 

•*I  would  desire  you  to  avoid  that,  if  possible," 
said  the  Bishop,  thoughtfully.  "It  will  be  very 
much  of  a  disgrace,  and  may  do  her  more  injury 
than  too  much  laxity  would.  She  does  not  look,  to 
me,  like  a  viciously  stubborn  child ;  I  should  trust 
very  much  to  her  good  feelings,  if  they  can  be 
worked  upon  ;  gentleness  and  consideration  may  do 
much  for  her." 

"They  have  been  tried,  sir." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  but  try  them  once  again.  I 
should  advise  you  seeing  her  alone  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, without  the  aggravation  of  her  teacher's 
presence.  Let  her  feel  that  it  is  a  desire  for  lier 
good  and  not  a  stubborn  love  of  authority,  that 
actuates  those  to  whom  she  is  bound  to  submit :  and 


CLOUDY. 


39 


once  convinced  of  that,  I  am  very  mucli  mistaken 
in  my  reading  of  her  face,  if  she  does  not  yield." 

"  I  trust  you  are  right  sir,  but  if  she  does  not  ?" 

"  If  she  does  not,  of  course  you  must  send  her  to 
me  ;  but  avoid  it,  if  possible." 

It  was  in  accordance  with  this  advice  that  Mr. 
Rogers,  entering  the  Study  next  morning  after 
Chapel,  said  to  Miss  Barlow,  who,  with  her  pupil, 
was  awaiting  him : 

"  I  would  like  to  have  a  few  minutes'  conversa- 
tion with  Louisa  alone,  Miss  Barlow.  May  I  ask 
you  to  leave  her  with  me  ?" 

This  was  as  unwelcome  as  it  was  unexpected  to 
the  teacher,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  said,  and 
nothing  to  be  done,  but  to  obey. 

"  Sit  down  a  moment,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Eogers, 
in  a  kind  tone ;  "  I  have  a  note  to  answer,  it  will  not 
detain  me  long." 

Mr.  Rogers  sat  down  to  his  writing,  Louie  to  her 
thoughts.  And  they  were  gentler  thoughts  than 
hers  had  been  lately.  There  was  nothing  of  stern- 
ness or  anger  in  the  thoughtful  face  of  her  judge, 
no  haste  or  irritation  in  his  movements  ;  perhaps  he 
meant  her  kindly :  and  as  she  had  just  come  from 
Chapel,  perhaps  the  better  resolutions  of  yesterday 
had  been  renewed  thero  as  she  knelt;  and  there 
was  no  one  at  hand  to  louse  the  newly  conquered 


40 


louie's  last  term. 


obstinacy.  At  all  events,  when  Mr.  Rogers  raised 
his  eyes  from  his  note,  he  saw  Louie's  were  full  of 
tears,  though  she  turned  her  head  quickly  away, 
and  he  rose  and  approached  her  kindly. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  that  the  time  you  have  had 
to  think  about  our  conversation  yesterday,  has  re- 
sulted in  a  determination  to  do  as  you  know  I 
desire  you  to  do.  I  am  not  apt  to  be  unreasonable, 
am  I?  And  I  think  you  must  have  seen,  if  you 
have  thought  about  it,  that  this  is  not  unreasonable. 
How  is  it  ?" 

Louie  hung  her  head.  "  No,  sir,  perhaps  it  isn't 
unreasonable." 

"  But  you  think  it  is  hard,  Louie  !  Duty  gene- 
erally  is,  my  child,  and  self-abasement  is  the  hard- 
est duty  I  know  ;  but  you  do  not  require  to  be  told 
what  its  reward  is,  what  blessed  promise  is  to  him 
4  who  humbleth  himself.'  And  rebellion  and 
pride,  Louie,  never  profited  any  one  yet.  Fretting 
and  struggling  only  make  the  yoke  more  galling 
(for  a  yoke  of  some  kind  there  must  be),  whereas, 
submission  and  patience  make  it  endurable  and 
easy." 

Louie  knew  all  that,  and  a  great  deal  else  that 
Mr.  Rogers  said  to  her  before,  but  it  came  with 
new  force  from  his  lips  now,  and  she  answered  in  a 
changed  and  humbled  voice : 


CLOUDY. 


41 


"  I  will  try,  sir,  to  do  as  you  require.  I  will  ask 
Miss  Barlow's  pardon — but — is  it  asking  too  much 
— may  I  write  to  her  instead  of  speaking  to  her 
about  it  ?    If  you  would  allow  me  "  

Mr.  Rogers  looked  thoughtfully  at  her. 

"Why,  Louie?" 

She  colored  as  she  answered,  and  bit  her  lip. 

"I  am  afraid  to  trust  myself,  sir.  I  know  it's 
very  wrong,  but  when  I'm  with  Miss  Barlow,  I 
can't  do  as  I  meant  to  before ;  I  always  get  angry 
and  impertinent." 

"I  am  willing,"  said  Mr.  Rogers,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause.  "  You  may  write  your  apology,  if 
you  choose." 

He  handed  her  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pen.  Just 
then  the  bell  rang  for  breakfast. 

"  Will  you  come  down  to  the  table  or  write  your 
note  first?" 

"  I'd  rather  write  the  note  first,  if  you  please." 

"  Very  well ;  some  breakfast  shall  be  saved  for 
you.  When  your  note  is  finished,  leave  it  on  the 
table.  I  will  see  that  Miss  Barlow  receives 
it." 

The  note,  short  as  it  was,  cost  Louie  much  time 
and  thought,  and  it  was  only  just  completed  when 
the  girls  came  up  from  breakfast.  This  is  a  "  true 
copy  "  of  it : 


42 


louie's  last  term. 


"Miss  Barlow: 

"  Mr.  Rogers  lias  given  me  permission  to  write 
to  you  and  make  the  explanation  you  asked  me  for 
yesterday.  The  reason  I  was  late  in  Chapel  was 
that  I  had  a  book  down  in  my  desk  that  I  wanted 
to  read  in.  I  was  dressed  some  time  before  the 
others,  and  ran  down  to  the  school-room  before  the 
bell  began  to  ring.  I  didn't  notice  when  it  stopped  ; 
they  had  all  gone  into  Chapel  before  I  thought  any- 
thing about  it. 

"  I  have  also  to  apologize  for  my  conduct  in  re- 
fusing an  explanation.  I  now  see  it  was  improper, 
and  am  sorry  for  it. 

"L.  R.  Atterbury." 

This  note,  folded  and  directed,  but  unsealed,  she 
left  on  the  Study  table,  and  went  out  with  a  very 
much  lighter  heart  than  she  had  known  what  it  was 
to  have  for  some  days.  The  Matron,  with  whom 
she  was  something  of  a  favorite,  had  ordered  her 
breakfast  saved,  and  she  ate  it  alone  in  the  huge 
dining-room  with  considerable  appetite  and  much 
comfort. 

Oh,  the  difference  between  an  easy  conscience 
and  a  burdened  one !  Louie  went  upstairs  two 
steps  at  a  time ;  she  ran  through  the  hall  humming 
"Brightest  Eyes;"  at  the  schoolroom  door  she 


CLOUDY. 


43 


brushed  against  Alice  Aulay,  who,  with  her  arms 
full  of  books,  was  hurrying  out ;  and,  as  a  natural 
consequence  of  the  collision,  half  the  books  went 
flying  over  the  floor. 

"Oh,  Ally!  don't  scold,"  cried  Louie,  stooping 
to  pick  them  up. 

"  I  think  you  might  look  a  little  where  you  go, 
though,"  said  Alice,  regarding,  very  much  troubled, 
the  debris  on  the  floor. 

"I  think  I  might,  too,"  returned  Louie,  good- 
humoredly,  "  only  I  never  do,  somehow.  Why, 
child,  you've  got  more  than  you  can  carry ;  your 
little  arms  will  break.  Where  are  you  taking 
them  to  ?" 

"  I'm  taking  'em  to  Julia  Alison  and  Laura  Bout- 
well.    They  are  in  Miss  Stanton's  room." 

"  Here  ;  I'll  help  you.    I'll  take  these." 

When  they  reached  the  door  of  Miss  Stanton's 
room,  Louie  paused  for  a  moment.  Laura  Bout- 
well  and  Julia  were  writing  busily  at  the  table. 
Julia  looked  up  for  an  instant,  but  seeing  Louie, 
dropped  her  eyes  and  went  on  with  her  work. 
Louie  walked  up  to  the  table  and  said,  laying  the 
books  down : 

"These  come  consigned  to  you,  I  think,  Laura. 
There  was  a  collision  at  the  schoolroom  door,  at- 
tended with  great  damage  to  the  cargo  of  the 


44 


LOUIE  6  LAST  TERM. 


i  Alice,'  but  I  acted  with  rnuch  gallantry  and  pre- 
sence of  mind  on  the  occasion,  and  was  able  to  res- 
cue something  from  the  wreck/' 

u  Many  thanks,''  said  Laura,  looking  up  with  a 
smile.  "  I  suppose  we  ought  to  make  you  a  neat 
speech  and  vote  you  a  service  of  plate  ;  that's  what 
humane  people  generally  get ;  don't  they  ?" 

"  According  to  the  newspapers,''  answered  Louie, 
lingering  a  moment  and  looking  at  Julia,  who 
never  raised  her  eyes  nor  smiled,  but  wrote  on  per- 
sistently. With  a  little  sigh,  she  turned  and  left 
the  room.  ''That  was  unkind,"  she  thought,  as  she 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  schoolroom.  It  was  the 
first  damp  her  new  spirits  had  received. 

Addy  McFarlane,  at  the  time  of  "  the  collision,'' 
had  been  engaged  in  a  little  privateering  enterprise 
iu  the  schoolroom.  Her  desk  was  next  to  Louie's, 
and  as  she  happened  to  know  that  Louie  had  her 
theme  written  out,  she  naturally  thought  it  would 
save  her  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  if  she  could  find  it, 
to  copy  it  off  entire,  for  Louie's  were  generally  the 
best  exercises  in  the  class.  She  was  just  engaged 
in  rummaging  through  the  wilderness  of  her  desk 
in  pursuit  of  it,  when  Alice's  exclamation  and 
Louie's  voice  made  her  start  up  and  drop  the  desk- 
lid.  She  seized  the  nearest  book  and  devoted  her- 
self to  it  till  the  two  withdrew  from  the  scene ; 


CLOUDY. 


45 


then  she  returned  to  the  charge.  But  on  lifting 
the  lid  of  the  desk,  it  was  with  some  chagrin  that 
she  discovered  the  unfortunate  results  of  her  pre- 
cipitate retreat.  A  bottle  of  ink  had  been  upset, 
and  had  damaged  considerably  an  adjacent  pile  of 
copy-books,  but  the  chief  sufferer  was  a  prettily 
bound  little  volume  which  had  lain  beside  it. 

u  Unlucky !"  thought  Adelaide ;  "  very  unlucky !" 

She  mopped  up  the  current  ink  with  her  hand- 
kerchief and  a  piece  of  paper,  shoved  the  injured 
copy-books  into  the  background,  put  the  stopper 
in  the  ink-bottle,  pulled  a  slate  over  the  daubed 
bottom  of  the  desk,  and  ejaculated  complacently : 
"  There,  nobody'd  guess  anything  had  happened. 
It's  as  good  as  ever — only  this  tiresome  book — what 
shall  I  do  with  it  ?" 

She  gave  a  furtive  glance  around ;  the  room 
was  nearly  empty.  The  two  girls  at  the  other  end, 
toward  the  door,  were  sitting  with  their  backs  to 
her.  Concealing  her  handkerchief  and  book  under 
her  apron,  slue  hurried  up  to  a  closet  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  room  that  was  seldom  or  never  used — 
the  bottom  part  of  it,  at  least.  She  flung  them  in 
and  shut  the  door,  reflecting  as  she  regained  her 
seat :  "  Nobody'll  ever  be  the  wiser." 

The  bell  rung,  and  the  schoolroom  filled  rapidly. 
Louie,  hurrying  in,  took  her  seat,  and  whispering, 


46 


louie's  last  term. 


"  Oh,  Adelaide !  have  you  found  the  '  Word  for  the 
Day  V  "  pushed  up  the  lid  of  her  desk  and  began  a 
rapid  search  for  the  Bible. 

"  Yes — yes,"  returned  Adelaide,  very  officiously, 
"here  it  is  ;  look  over  and  learn  it  with  me." 

For  the  ink  wasn't  dry  yet,  she  thought  with 
alarm. 

Louie  took  hold  of  the  proffered  Bible,  and  the 
two  heads  bent  over  it  very  earnestly  for  several 
minutes,  and  when  Mr.  Rogers  entered  and  the 
whole  school  rose  to  say  the  "  Word  for  the  Day," 
Addy  repeated  it  as  glibly  and  correctly  as  any  one 
else  did.  Louie  stumbled  a  little  in  reciting  it,  but 
it  rung  in  her  ears  all  day. 

"  Before  destruction  the  heart  of  man  is  haughty ; 
and  before  honor  is  humility." 

Louie  almost  thought  Mr.  Rogers'  eyes  were  on 
her  all  the  while  that  he  explained  it ;  that  may 
have  been  fancy,  but  his  thoughts  certainly  were. 

Though  painfully  exemplifying  Louie's  want  of 
neatness  in  the  arrangement  of  her  desk,  truth  com- 
pels me  to  state  that  she  did  not  perceive  the  recent 
invasion  of  it.  Her  visits  to  it  were  hurried  (Louie 
generally  was  in  a  hurry),  and  it  presented  such  a 
distracting  maze  of  confusion,  that  she  was  glad  to 
drop  the  lid  and  forget  it  the  instant  she  had  found 
the  book  she  wanted. 


CLOUDY. 


47 


The  only  time  that  she  came  near  discovering  the 
mishap,  was  in  the  Trench  class,  the  last  recitation 
before  school  closed.  She  chanced  to  be  seated 
between  Addy  and  Julia ;  it  was  a  chance  she  would 
have  avoided  if  she  could,  for  they  were,  for  very  dif- 
ferent reasons,  the  two  girls  whose  neighborhood  was 
least  pleasant  to  her.  Addy  she  always  shunned 
for  very  obvious  reasons,  and  Julia,  whenever  they 
had  met  during  the  day,  had  shown  so  unmistaka- 
ble a  coldness  that  all  Louie's  pride  was  roused,  and 
nothing  could  have  been  more  vexatious  than  the 
discovery  that  she  made  after  her  hurried  entrance 
and  appropriation  of  the  nearest  vacant  seat,  that  it 
was  bounded  on  the  east  by  Adelaide  McFarlane's 
grey  foulard,  and  on  the  west  by  Julia  Alison's 
pale  blue  muslin.  She  bit  her  lip  in  vexation,  said 
"bother!"  under  her  breath,  glanced  around  to  see  if 
it  were  possible  to  change,  but  finding  it  was  not, 
arranged  her  books  and  submitted  to  her  fate. 

Miss  Marbais,  a  brisk  little  Frenchwoman,  who 
never  allowed  the  loss  of  a  minute  in  her  class,  be- 
gan the  lesson  promptly.  She  plunged  them  into 
• 6  dictee"  without  a  thought  of  mercy  and  with  a 
cruel  rapidity,  and  all  wits  had  a  hard  race  to  fol- 
low in  her  wake.  Louie  did  not  mind  it  very  much ; 
ushe  took  to  French,"  the  girls  said,  "as  ducks  take 
to  water ;"  it  never  was  the  least  trouble  for  her  to 


4:8 


louie's  last  term. 


prepare  the  lessons  that  gave  some  of  her  com- 
panions such  extreme  perplexity,  and  as  for  dicta- 
tion, it  was  as  easy  to  her  as  so  much  English 
would  have  been.  Julia,  also,  was  a  good  scholar, 
probably  a  more  thorough  one  than  Louie;  but 
Addy  McFarlane  found  the  half  hour  devoted  to 
dieted  the  time  that  tried  her  soul  most  unbearably. 
Miss  Marbais  was  very  wide  awake,  nothing  ever 
seemed  to  escape  her,  and  Adelaide  being  a  very 
indifferent  French  scholar,  had  much  ado  to  shuffle 
along  respectably  among  her  more  advanced  com- 
panions. We  have  seen  how  she  managed  the 
theme  business;  translation  was  something  of  a 
bugbear,  but  by  dint  of  studying  over  the  passage 
that  was  coming  to  her,  and  managing  dexterously 
about  getting  a  seat  near  some  person  not  prin- 
cipled against  prompting,  she  escaped  open  dis- 
grace in  that  part  of  the  hour's  exercises,  but  at 
dictation  she  was  hopelessly  routed.  More  than 
once,  her  horribly  incorrect  rendering  of  Miss 
Marbais'  rapid  French  had  been  held  up  to  public 
derision.  The  silence  that  reigned  during  the  les- 
son was  too  entire  to  admit  of  prompting,  and 
indeed  every  girl  was  too  busy  on  her  own  account 
to  give  any  help  to  a  bewildered  neighbor. 

On  this  particular  occasion  she  had  twisted  her- 
self into  rather  an  ungraceful  attitude,  but  one 


CLOUDY. 


49 


which  enabled  her  to  glance  over  Louie's  slate,  and 
she  was  availing  herself  greedily  of  the  opportunity, 
till  Louie,  perceiving  the  advantage  her  adversary 
was  taking  of  her  labors,  rather  pettishly  turned 
away  and  put  her  slate  beyond  the  reach  of  Ade- 
laide's anxious  eyes.  But  Adelaide  followed,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  was  again  copying  rapidly  from 
her  slate.  Louie  perceived  it,  and  mentally  ex- 
claiming: 

"  She's  the  meanest  girl  I  ever  knew !  If  she 
will  do  such  things,  she  shall  pay  for  them." 

And  with  a  rapid  pencil  she  wrote  on,  in  the 
most  absurd  French  she  could  think  of,  and  ingeni- 
ously introduced  as  many  laughable  mistakes  as  the 
subject  admitted  of.  She  knew  she  could  correct 
her  own  slate  before  Miss  Marbais  asked  for  it, 
and  her  familiarity  with  the  language  made  it  very 
easy  for  her  to  play  off  this  very  questionable  trick 
upon  her  ancient  foe.  The  subject  which  Miss 
Marbais  had  chosen,  was  the  short  poem  said  to 
have  been  written  by  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  on  leav- 
ing France,  and  the  vehement  little  Frenchwoman, 
no  doubt,  looked  upon  the  horrible  mangling  and 
mutilation  of  these  pretty  verses  as  a  sacrilegious 
thing,  for  as  her  eye  glanced  over  Adelaide's  slate, 
her  face  underwent  many  rapid  changes  from  grave 
to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe,  and  many  broken 

3 


50 


louie's  last  term. 


exclamations  in  alternate  French  and  English,  burst 
from  her  lips.  At  last,  while  Adelaide  with  sus- 
pended breath  watched  her  apprehensively  and 
Louie  smothered  her  laughter,  she  tapped  on  the 
desk,  and  holding  up  the  slate,  exclaimed : 

"  0  malheureuse  princesse !  JEcoutez,  mes  de- 
moiselles." 

And  with  much  gesticulation  and  cruel  emphasis, 
she  read  off  the  absurd  jumble  of  nonsense  to  the 
eagerly  attentive  girls.  The  result  of  course,  was 
an  unequivocal  burst  of  laughter,  and  curious  whis- 
pers of  "  Whose  is  it — whose  is  it?" 

"  Cest  a  Mademoiselle  McFarlane"  responded 
Miss  Marbais  without  note  or  comment,  as  she  laid 
it  down. 

"  Justly  celebrated  for  her  early  proficiency  in 
the  language,"  laughed  Louie  very  low. 

It  would,  indeed,  have  made  poor  Marie  Stuart's 
hair  stand  on  end,  I  am  afraid ;  her  "  listening 
spirit"  wouldn't  altogether  have  "rejoiced"  in  this 
rendering  of  her  adieu;  the  girls  said  as  much  as 
this,  in  stage  asides,  and  a  good  deal  more  to  the 
same  effect,  and  it  was  some  time  before  they  could 
be  quieted  to  study  again.  In  the  meanwhile, 
Addy's  face,  which  had  not  turned  red,  but  rather 
white,  had  shown  no  discomposure,  but  had  been 
bent   eagerly  toward   the  teacher,  awaiting  the 


CLOUDY. 


51 


moment  when  she  should  read  Louie's  verses, 
thinking,  "  I'll  have  good  company  in  my  disgrace 
when  she  gets  to  them" 

But  when  Miss  Marbais  did  get  to  them,  and 
reading  them  quietly  over,  returned  them  to 
Louie  with  a  "  Tres  Men  fait"  the  whole  truth 
flashed  upon  her.  The  glare  of  malice  that  filled 
her  eyes  no  one  saw;  they  lit  on  Louie  for  an 
instant,  who  was  now  intent  on  her  theme^  then 
they  dropped  upon  her  book. 

"You  shall  pay  dearly  for  this,  cherie"  she 
murmured  in  audibly. 

In  a  few  moments,  Miss  Marbais,  who  had  begun 
correcting  the  exercises,  put  out  her  hand  for 
Louie's,  going  on  with  her  work  of  looking  over 
another's,  and  not  raising  her  eyes.  Meanwhile  the 
luckless  Louie  had  opened  her  exercise-book,  and 
had  discovered  its  fair  pages  miserably  defaced  with 
huge  daubs  of  ink,  indeed,  so  much  defaced  that 
the  theme  for  that  day  was  totally  unintelligible. 

"How  could  I  have  done  it!"  she  ejaculated  in 
consternation.  A  faint  hope  of  repairing  the  dam- 
age by  dint  of  scratching  out  some  blots  and 
re-writing  some  lines  inspired  her  to  long  for  a  few 
minutes'  delay,  and  she  glanced  anxiously  toward 
her  neighbors  to  see  whose  exercise  might  be  sub- 
stituted for  hers,  pro  tern.     Adelaide  held  hers, 


52 


louie's  la.st  term. 


neatly  written,  in  her  hand,  ready  to  give  to  Miss 
Marbais  when  demanded.  Of  her,  of  course,  she 
could  not  now  ask  a  favor ;  she  turned  to  Julia, 
who  sat  with  her  pretty  white  hands  folded  before 
her,  her  Mvre  de  theme  lying  on  her  knee.  If  Louie 
had  not  been  so  miserably  cornered,  she  never 
would  have  been  driven  into  doing  what  she  did  at 
that  moment.  Nothing  but  the  dread  of  laying 
that  horrible  theme  before  Miss  Marbais  would  have 
betrayed  her  into  asking  a  favor  of  Julia.  Forget- 
ting everything  but  Miss  Marbais,  she  leant  down 
and  whispered  eagerly  : 

"  Give  her  yours.  I  want  to  fix  mine  before  she 
sees  it." 

Miss  Marbais'  hand  was  still  extended ;  she 
moved  it  a  little  impatiently,  still  with  her  eyes  on 
the  book  before  her,  and  said  : 

" Mademoiselle,  voire  theme,  vite" 

Louie  gave  a  despairing  glance  toward  Julia. 
Her  quietly  folded  hands  never  stirred  a  hair's 
breadth  ;  a  slight  glow  of  color  on  her  half-averted 
face  alone  showed  she  had  heard  Louie  speak. 
The  very  angriest  feelings  that  had  ever  filled  Louie's 
heart  rushed  into  it  then,  as  she  sprung  up  and 
handed  Miss  Marbais  her  exercise,  open  at  the 
worst  page. 

"Now,  Julia  and  I  are  done  with  each  other  for- 


CLOUDY. 


53 


ever ;  if  I  live  a  hundred  years,  I  can  never  forget 
that — never !" 

If  she  could  have  seen  into  Julia's  heart  at  that 
moment,  she  would  have  repented  of  her  hasty 
judgment;  of  the  two,  perhaps,  she  suffered  most 
in  this  new  estrangement,  and  only  saw  her  error 
when,  too  late,  her  pride  told  her  to  remedy  it. 
When  Louie  hurriedly  asked  her  for  her  exercise, 
she  imagined  that  it  was  to  give  her  time  to  make 
some  corrections  she  had  discovered  necessary  since 
coming  to  class,  from  looking  over  some  book  that 
Miss  Marbais  had  corrected.  Surprise  and  shame  at 
Louie's  want  of  honor,  and  a  conscientiousness  about 
being  a  party  to  any  such  deceptions,  had  kept  her 
silent  during  the  brief  instant  that  Louie  had  turned 
to  her  for  help.  Only  when  Miss  Marbais  took  up 
the  book  and,  turning  to  its  proprietor,  demanded 
the  cause  of  the  state  she  found  it  in,  did  she  see 
her  error. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  ma'am,"  said 
Louie,  speaking  hurriedly ;  "  I  didn't  see  it  till  I 
came  to  class." 

"That's  odd,"  said  Miss  Marbais,  rather  sharply. 
"  It's  really  surprising  how  many  things  happen  to 
you  that  you  cannot  possibly  account  for.  It 
strikes  me  I  should  know  it  if  I  had  spilt  a  bottle 
of  ink  over  one  of  my  books ;  perhaps  it  will  help 


54 


louie's  last  term. 


you  to  remember  it  another  time,  to  rewrite  this 
before  you  have  any  dinner.  You  may  try  it,  at 
all  events." 

Louie's  cheeks  burned  as  she  took  back  the  book. 
Miss  Marbais  had  always  been  perfectly  just  and 
kind  to  her  before,  and  this  certainly  was  just. 
She  did  not  say  a  word,  but  she  bit  her  lip  as  she 
thought:  "Whether  I  try  or  not,  it's  all  one. 
Everything  goes  wrong." 

They  had  about  ten  minutes  in  the  schoolroom 
before  school  was  dismissed;  Louie  had  seized  her 
grammar  and  cahier  and  was  trying  to  make  up  for 
the  error,  and  make  the  most  of  the  ten  minutes, 
but  never  had  her  work  been  so  hard ;  she  was  ex- 
cited and  nervous,  and  could  not  put  her  mind  on 
what  she  was  about,  and  Adelaide  McFarlane's 
eyes  danced  as  she  watched  her  angrily  tear  the 
third  page  out  of  her  copy-book,  blotted  and  incor- 
rect. Adelaide  could  not  forbear  a  little  curiosity 
about  the  matter,  and  watched  narrowly,  and  won- 
dered much  that  Louie  did  not  avail  herself  of  three 
corrected  exercises  that  lay  within  reach  of  her 
hand,  their  owners  absent,  too.  "What  a  stupid 
girl,  to  miss  such  a  chance ! 

About  three  minutes  before  the  bell  rung  for  the 
dismissal  of  school,  a  servant  entered  the  room,  and, 
with  a  card  in  her  hand,  walked  down  to  the  desk 


CLOUDY. 


55 


of  the  teacher  in  charge,  and  said,  "there  was  a 
lady  and  gentleman  in  the  parlor  to  see  Miss  Atter- 
bury." 

Louie's  quick  ears  caught  her  name ;  she  waited, 
trembling  with  excitement  (for  visitors  to  Miss 
Atterbury  were  angelic  in  their  infrequency— few 
and  far  between)  till  the  teacher  called  her  up, 
and  delivering  the  card  to  her,  said  graciously  : 

"  You  may  go  to  the  parlor  without  waiting  for 
the  dismissing  of  school." 

Louie  read  the  name  and  gave  an  ecstatic  "  Hur- 
rah !"  under  her  breath,  and  danced  down  the 
schoolroom,  forgetful  of  proprieties. 

The  teacher  smiled  a  little  ;  she  had  been  young 
herself — perhaps  at  no  very  distant  date.  She  said 
to  Adelaide : 

"  You  may  put  away  Louie's  books  that  she  has 
left  about.  She  will  not  want  them  again  this  after- 
noon." 

"She  hasn't  finished  her  exercise,"  answered 
Adelaide,  quickly.  "  Miss  Marbais  sent  her  up  to 
write  it  over  before  she  can  come  to  dinner." 

"  Ah !"  said  the  teacher,  looking  serious.  "  How- 
ever, you  may  put  them  away  for  the  present." 

And  Adelaide  shuffled  them  into  the  desk  with 
no  very  tender  hand. 


CHAPTEE  IY. 


THE  STJN  COMES  OUT. 

"  Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 
In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake  ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 
The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache." 

Lowell. 

At  the  parlor-door,  Louie  paused  a  moment  in  a 
great  flutter  of  excitement ;  but  a  small  boy,  who 
had  been  keeping  watch  for  her  approach,  darted 
out  and  dragged  her  in. 

"  Oh,  you  wretched  Tom !"  she  cried,  as  she  flew 
into  the  arms  of  a  lady  standing  just  within  the 
door.  "  Why  didn't  you  give  me  time  to  compose 
my  nerves  before  I  came  in?" 

"Your  hair  needs  it  more,  dear,"  said  the  urchin. 

"  Oh,  my  hair !"  she  exclaimed,  holding  up  the 
heavy  braids  with  one  hand  while  she  gave  the 
other  to  the  tall  gentleman  who  stood  looking  down 
at  her  with  a  smile. 

"  Not  cured  of  your  carelessness  yet,  eh,  Louie  V 
he  said. 

56 


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


57 


"  No,  sir ;  I  begin  to  think  it  has  become 
chronic,"  she  answered,  with  a  laugh  that  eventu- 
ated in  a  low,  uneasy  sigh.  "But  I  am  so  sur- 
prised to  see  you !" 

"And  so  glad?" 

"Ah,  sir!" 

"Why,  of  course,  Uncle  Eawdon,  she's  glad," 
Tom  interposed. 

"That  is,  I  would  have  been,  sir,  if  you'd  left 
Tom  at  home." 

"Louie,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Tom,  thrusting  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  and  putting  great  expression 
in  his  little,  old,  odd  face,  "we  had  hoped  to  find 
that  boarding-school  had  taken  some  of  the  sauci- 
ness  out  of  you,  whereas  it  is  but  too  clear,  at  even 
the  first  glance,  that  you  are  as  bad  as  ever." 

"  Ingrate !  never  ask  me  to  hem  another  set  of 
sails  for  you." 

"  I  shan't,  you  may  be  sure,  for  those  you  did  in 
the  spring  ripped  out  the  first  time  I  tried  'em." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !" 

"Tom,  will  you  be  quiet  and  let  us  talk  to 
Louie?"  exclaimed  his  mother,  drawing  the  girl 
affectionately  toward  her  as  they  sat  down  on  the 
sofa.  "Never  mind  the  hair,  Louie,  we've  seen  it 
so  before,  you  know.  But  you're  not  looking  well, 
child.  I  am  sure,  now  your  face  is  quiet  that  you 
3* 


53 


louie's  last  term. 


look  paler  than  when  you  left  us.    Don't  you  think 

so,  Rawdon?" 

"  A  little,  perhaps,"  said  the  gentleman,  looking 
at  her  thoughtfully.  "  Have  you  been  studying 
too  hard,  Louie  ?" 

"  Anything  but  that,"  she  returned,  hastily,  col- 
oring a  little.  "  I  am  very  well,  though,  I  assure 
you,  only  so  surprised  at  seeing  you  I  can  hardly 
speak.  It  is  so  nice — how  did  you  happen  to  think 
about  coming  here  ?  1  thought  you  were  on  your 
way  to  Canada  before  this  time." 

"  We  are  en  route  for  the  Lakes  now,"  explained 
the  lady,  "  and  as  we  shall  be  away  all  summer,  we 
could  not  go  without  running  down  here  for -a 
night  to  see  you  and  say  good  bye.  Tom  gave 
me  no  peace  either ;  saucy  as  he  is,  now  he's  with 
you." 

"  Mamma,  don't  flatter  Louie.  I  wanted  to  see 
you,  my  dear,  to  tell  you  that  your  letters  are  get- 
ting very  blue  and  tiresome,  and  if  you  can't  write 
anything  more  spicy  and  jolly,  I  think  you  had 
better  discontinue  altogether.  Uncle  Rawdon 
thinks  so  too,  I  know." 

u  Louie  knows  better  than  that,"  said  Col.  Ruth- 
ven.  "  Louie  knows  that  her  letters  are  always 
welcome,  even  if  they  are  homesick  and  *  blue  5  as 
Tom  says  they  are  getting  to  be.    I  hope  he  is  mis- 


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


59 


taken,  though,  about  it ;  surely  you  are  not  home- 
sick?" 

Coi.  Ruthven  saw  in  a  moment  that  he  had 
touched  an  aching  chord  ;  so,  before  Louie  could  get 
out  her  hesitating  answer,  he  tried  to  divert  the 
conversation  into  another  channel,  and  succeeded 
so  well  that  in  a  few  moments  Louie  herself  had 
forgotten  that  there  was  such  a  word  as  homesick 
in  general  use,  or  such  a  sentiment  in  circulation ; 
and,  in  recalling  the  delights  of  last  spring,  the 
adventures,  the  jokes,  the  entertainments  of  that 
happy  time,  the  present  dullness  and  recent  wretch- 
edness of  school  life,  were  quite  obliterated.  She 
only  remembered  them,  when  Col.  Ruthven,  in  his 
quick  way,  said  she  must  go  and  ask  for  a  holiday ; 
they  would  not  insist  upon  her  having  longer  leave 
than  till  the  next  day  at  noon ;  but  Mr.  Rogers 
would  not  refuse  that,  he  was  sure. 

"  Yes,  go  quick,  there's  not  a  minute  to  lose," 
urged  Tom.  "  "We're  going  to  do  lots  of  things,  and 
Uncle  Rawdon  has  ordered  dinner  at  the  hotel  at 
half-past  three,  and  we  shall  have  to  make  good 
time  to  get  back  for  it.  Oh  what  makes  you  so 
slow  ?  One  would  think  you  were  afraid  of  Mr. 
Rogers." 

"  ISTo,  I'm  not  afraid,"  said  Louie  falteringly,  as 
she  moved  toward  the  door.    "  I'm  not  afraid,  only 


60 


louie's  last  term. 


I  don't  know  whether  I  can  go — Mr.  Eogers  may 

think — I  don't  know  "  

"  But  you  can  ask  him,"  said  Col.  Ruthven,  wTith 
a  kind  smile  as  he  opened  the  door  for  her.  "  Tell 
him  who  has  come  for  you,  and  promise  to  study 
extra  well  for  the  next  week,  and  I  think  he  won't 
refuse  you — I  couldn't,  I  know,"  he  added  in  a  low 
tone  as  he  closed  the  door  and  turned  to  the  win- 
dow. 

The  young  ne'er-do-weel,  in  the  moment  that 
intervened  between  the  closing  of  the  parlor  door 
and  the  opening  of  the  study  door,  did  not  feel  the 
same  confidence ;  she  trembled  and  faltered  as  she 
stood  before  Mr.  Rogers,  who  was  busy  at  his  writ- 
ing, and  who  had  hardly  noticed  her  first  faint 
knock.    He  looked  up. 

"  Ah,  Louie  ;  what  is  it?" 

She  could  hardly  get  the  words  out ;  it  was  so 
absurd  for  her  to  be  coming  to  this  room,  to  ask 
a  favor  of  Mr.  Rogers,  a  special  indulgence,  when 
she  had  so  lately  left  it  in  disgrace. 

"  I  came  to  ask  you,  sir,  if  I  might  go  and  dine 
and  stay  till  to-morrow  with  some  friends  who 
have  just  arrived.  I  am  sorry,  sir — I  know  I 
ought  not  to  ask — but  I  don't  go  out  very  often — 
I  haven't  many  chances — and  if  you  could  be  so 
good — this  time"  


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


61 


Mr.  Rogers  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked  at  her 
attentively. 

"  Who  has  come  for  yon  ?" 

"  My  godmother,  Mrs.  Appleton,  with  whom  I 
spent  my  vacation  in  the  spring,  and  her  brother, 
Col.  Ruthven.  They're  the  only  people  who  ever 
come  to  see  me,  yon  know,  sir,  and  they're  going 
away  to  Canada  to  be  gone  all  summer — I  shan't 
see  them  again  in  ever  so  long.  They  only  want 
me  to  stay  till  noon  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  Louie,  I  don't  mean  to  seem  harsh,  but 
think  a  moment.  Does  a  holiday  seem  to  come 
well  on  the  top  of  such  a  week  as  this  has  been  ? 
Could  you  blame  me  if  I  said  I  could  not  reward 
such  conduct  as  yours  has  been  lately  ?" 

"No — oh  no,  sir,"  said  Louie,  with  a  quivering 
lip.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  let  me  go — I  know  it's 
all  right,"  and  she  turned  away. 

"  Stay  a  moment,  Louie.  If  I  thought  this  indul- 
gence would  do  you  no  harm — if  you  would  only 
see  in  it  my  desire  to  do  you  good  and  make  you 
happy,  perhaps  I  might  allow  it  this  time.  Would 
you  really  try  to  make  yourself  worthy  of  the  con- 
fidence, if  I  made  the  experiment  ?" 

"  I  think  you  would  never  see  any  cause  to  be 
sorry,  sir  ;  I  meant  to  do  better  before,  and  this  will 
only  make  me  try  the  harder  to  please  you." 


C2 


louie's  last  term. 


b  Very  well,  then,  you  have  my  consent." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir!"  and  Louie  with  a  very 
glowing  face  was  turning  away,  when  a  sudden 
extinction  of  the  smiles,  and  a  gradual  paling  of  the 
excited  flush  on  her  cheek,  indicated  that  she  had 
thought  of  something  that  might  change  Mr.  Rog- 
ers' decree.  That  something  was  the  miserable 
theme  now  lying  uncommenced  on  her  desk.  With 
a  sigli  she  thought,  "  That  settles  it  !"  and  then  turn- 
ing again  to  the  clergyman,  she  said : 

"  I  had  forgotten,  sir ;  I  ought  to  tell  you,  I  have 
not  done  my  French  exercise.  Miss  Marbais  .said 
I  must  do  it  before  dinner  for  a  punishment." 

"  Then  that  alters  it  entirely.  I  cannot  interfere 
again  between  you  and  your  teacher.  You  must 
see  I  cannot  excuse  you  again.  If  you  have  been 
inattentive  to-day  you  must  take  the  consequences 
of  it.  I  am  sorry  for  you — I  wish  it  were  other- 
wise, but  I  cannot  reconcile  it  to  my  conscience  to 
indulge  you  to-day." 

Mr.  Rogers  spoke  quickly  ;  he  did  not  want  to 
have  his  resolution  shaken  by  another  look  at  the 
girl's  imploring  eyes;  so  he  put  considerable  de- 
cision into  his  tones,  and  without  looking  at  her 
again,  resumed  his  writing,  and  said  she  might 
go. 

She  did  go,  hurriedly  enough,  shutting  the  door 


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


63 


very  quickly,  and  only  stopping  when  half-way 
across  to  the  parlor.  What  should  she  say  to  them — 
what  would  they  think  of  her  ?  Oh !  it  was  too 
cruel — disgracing  her  before  the  people  that  she 
cared  more  for  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  put  to- 
gether except  mother — denying  her  the  only  holi- 
day she  would  have  all  summer  long.  How  could 
she  go  into  the  parlor,  her  face  all  red  with 
crying,  and  tell  them  how  it  was,  and  why  she 
was  refused  what  any  other  girl  would  have  been 
allowed  ? 

The  summer  wind  swept  through  the  wide  hall ; 
oh !  how  sweet  it  looked  outside !  Not  a  soul  was 
near ;  it  was  as  quiet  as  if  there  were  not  a  busy 
multitude  within  a  hundred  yards  of  where  she 
stood.  But  all  were  collected  in  the  schoolroom 
now ;  she  felt  safe  as  she  heard  the  distant  buzz  of 
voices  there,  and  turning  back  irresolutely,  she  ap- 
proached the  staircase,  and,  sitting  down  on  the 
lowest  step,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

She  had  meant  to  quiet  herself  and  gain  com- 
posure by  this  respite,  but  "  thinking  it  over  "  only 
made  it  worse;  before  she  could  think,  she  was 
sobbing  hopelessly. 

"  Oh !  what  shall  I  do !"  as  the  sobs  came  thicker 
and  faster.  "  I  shall  never  get  over  it  enough  to 
go  in ;  I  never  can  stop  when  once  I  get  crying. 


64 


louie's  last  term. 


I  wouldn't  have  them  see  me  for  the  world.  Oh, 
it  is  too  miserable !" 

But  through  it  all,  Louie's  honest  heart  told  her 
it  was  all  right — there  was  no  injustice  here;  no 
injustice,  only,  as  she  thought,  her  unhappy,  pur- 
suing fate.  She  wished  she  could  die  and  be  rid 
of  all  the  wretchedness  of  her  life ;  she  was  sick  of 
being  always  wrong  and  always  ashamed  of  her 
wrongdoings.  Was  there  no  remedy  for  this — 
would  there  be  no  end  to  it? 

A  hand  was  laid  gently  on  her  head ;  she  started 
up  and  took  her  hands  from  before  her  face  for  a 
moment,  then  pressed  them  *  back  with  double 
shame ;  it  was  the  Bishop. 

"  Child,  what  is  it  ?  You  are  not  afraid  to  tell 
me?" 

No,  Louie  was  not  afraid ;  the  strong,  clear  voice 
that  she  had  hardly  ever  heard  before  out  of  church 
or  chapel,  addressing  all  the  others,  warning,  advis- 
ing, directing  all  at  once,  now  speaking  to  her  alone^ 
was  so  low,  so  gentle,  she  hardly  knew  it  for  the 
same.  It  cast  out  all  fear  from  her  heart ;  she  could 
have  told  him  all,  and  tried,  only  the  words  would 
not  come  and  the  sobs  would.  She  raised  her 
head  and  made  a  strong  effort  to  speak ;  said  some- 
thing unintelligible  about  Mr.  Eogers,  then  broke 
down  altogether,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


65 


"You  have  just  come  from  the  Study?  Then 
come  back  there  with  me,  and  Mr.  Rogers  shall 
tell  me  about  it." 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  the  Study  door ; 
Mr.  Rogers'  "  Come  in  "  was  not  so  awful  this  time ; 
indeed,  there  was  nothing  awful  in  the  world  now, 
since  what  had  been  to  her  the  embodiment  of  awe 
and  terror,  held  her  by  the  hand  as  if  she  were  in- 
deed his  child,  and  soothed  her  in  a  voice  that  had 
an  echo  of  the  tenderness  to  which  she  had  so  long 
been  unused. 

It  was  all  extremely  dreamy,  and  Louie  could 
never  distinctly  recall  it  afterward;  Mr.  Rogers' 
explanation — the  Bishop's  intercession  for  her — the 
sudden  reversal  of  her  sentence — were  things  too 
deliriously  delightful  to  be  distinct.  In  five 
minutes  she  was  flying  up  the  stairs,  not  looking 
like  the  cousin  sixteen  times  removed  to  the  girl 
who  had  just  been  sitting  at  the  foot  of  them,  sob- 
bing in  such  a  broken-hearted  fashion.  She  burst 
into  the  dormitory,  now  filled  with  girls  washing 
off  the  day's  ink  and  dust  before  dinner,  and  spring- 
ing over  trunks  and  beds,  pulled  open  her  ward- 
robe and  flung  out  upon  the  bed  her  pink  muslin, 
white  mantilla  and  straw  hat. 

"  Heigho !"  cried  Addy,  the  soap  slipping  from 
her  hands,  as  in  concert  with  the  rest  of  the  room, 


66 


louie's  last  term. 


she  stared  in  amazement  at  the  rapid  movements 
of  the  new-comer.  "What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  your  best  clothes  at  this  time  of  day  ?" 

"Put  them  on,  if  you've  no  objection,"  returned 
Louie,  unlacing  her  boots  with  such  vigor  that  the 
tag  went  click-click  through  the  holes  with  the  pre- 
cision and  rapidity  of  an  eight-day  clock  ticking 
with  all  its  might. 

"How  about  Miss  Marbais?  Does  she  know 
you're  going  out  without  writing  the  exercise  she 
gave  you  to  do  before  dinner?"  demanded  Ade- 
laide, in  a  voice  purposely  raised  so  as  to  be  audible 
to  Miss  Barlow,  who  sat  at  her  window  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room. 

"  I  haven't  told  her ;  I  knew  you'd  enjoy  running 
down  and  mentioning  it  so  much  ;  do  go  !" 

"  Thank  you,  I've  better  business  ;  only  I  bet 
Mr.  Rogers  didn't  know  of  it  when  he  gave  you 
leave." 

Louie  was  too  secure  and  too  happy  to  care  for 
this;  indeed  she  rather  enjoyed  Adelaide's  spite 
and  vexation ;  so  she  only  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  looked  very  mischievous,  and  begged  her  of  all 
things  not  to  tell !  And  she  sprung  up  and  made 
a  hurried  assault  upon  the  basin  and  pitcher ;  but 
the  pitcher  was  very  full,  and  the  reckless  way  in 
which  she  poured  the  water  into  the  basin,  of  course 


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


67 


resulted  in  dispensing  three-quarters  of  it  around 
the  adjacent  washstands.  Alice  Aulay's  was  the 
greatest  sufferer,  and  the  little  girl  herself  received 
a  good  dash  of  it  on  her  clean  white  apron,  and 
Julia,  who  was  curling  her  hair  for  her,  made  an 
involuntary  exclamation  of  dismay,  perhaps  re- 
proach. 

Alice  had  been  pretty  near  a  cry  for  the  last  half 
hour,  owing  to  a  want  of  success  in  her  geography 
lesson,  and  an  accumulation  of  distresses  resulting 
from  her  failure  in  those  "  map  questions "  which 
had  for  the  last  week  made  her  life  a  burden  to  her  ; 
and  now  this  little  contretemps  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  send  her  into  an  ecstasy  of  weeping. 
She  hid  her  face  in  Julia's  dress  and  screamed  as 
only  very  small  and  very  unreasonable  children  can 
scream ;  and  amid  passionate  laments  for  her  wet 
apron,  she  mingled  incoherent  reproaches  of  Louie 
Atterbury  as  "  the  hatefullest  girl  in  school 55 — the 
cause  of  all  her  troubles,  and  "  too  mean  for  any- 
thing." 

Julia  tried  to  soothe  her,  and  ventured  to  say, 
she  had  not  meant  to  do  it. 

"She  did  mean  to  do  it!"  cried  the  child. 
"  She's  always  doing  things,  and  she  always  means 
to  do  'em !  She  knocked  down  my  books  this 
morning.   She's  hateful — she's  always  teasing  me !" 


68 


louie's  last  term. 


"  I  know  she's  careless,  Ally ;  but  you  mustn't  be 
cross." 

Louie  turned  sharply  round  at  this,  and  said, 
angrily  : 

"  You  have  had  the  greatest  hand  in  spoiling  that 
child.  I  blame  you  more  than  her  that  she  is  the 
torment  of  the  dormitory.  Alice,  if  you  don't  stop, 
I'll  report  you  ;  be  quiet  now — its  enough  to  drive 
one  wild  to  hear  that  howling — be  quiet ;  do  you 
hear?" 

Of  course,  as  might  have  been  expected,  this  had 
the  effect  of  redoubling  Alice's  screams ;  and  Julia, 
quite  roused  at  Louie's  injustice  and  unkindness, 
kept  her  arms  around  her  little  protegee,  and  spoke 
in  a  low,  fondling  tone  to  her,  that  was  quite  exas- 
perating to  the  originator  of  the  uproar.  Addy 
McFarlane,  sitting  on  the  foot  of  her  bed,  laughed 
in  a  very  provoking  way,  and  begged  everybody's 
pardon,  but,  it  struck  her,  good-temper  had  of  late 
been  at  a  premium  in  the  dormitory;  and  Miss 
Barlow,  hurrying  down  the  room,  asked,  in  a  sharp, 
high  key,  what  all  the  noise  was  about. 

None  seemed  to  consider  themselves  exactly  quali- 
fied to  answer  this  question.  Alice  subdued  her 
sobs  a  little,  Julia  turned  away  as  if  it  were  not  her 
business  to  explain,  the  others  all  stood  spectator 
fashion,  looking  at  Louie. 


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


69 


"  I  suppose  it's  all  about  me,  ma'am,"  that  young 
person  answered,  in  default  of  anybody  else,  going 
on,  however,  with  the  business  of  washing  her 
hands.  "I  was  unlucky  enough  to  spatter  some 
water  on  small  Miss  Aulay's  pinafore,  and  she  has 
been  entertaining  us  since  the  occurrence  with  some 
very  energetic  squalling.  I  didn't  enjoy  it  as  much 
as  Julia  seemed  to,  and  so  threatened  to  report  her, 
if  she  didn't  stop,  which  only  produced  renewed 
excitement.  I  am  sorry  if  it  disturbed  you, 
ma'am." 

"  It  did  disturb  me,  and  I  shall  take  pains  to  pre- 
vent its  recurrence.  Alice,  whenever  Louie  annoys 
you,  come  to  me  immediately,  and  I  will  see  that 
you  have  justice  done  you.  Such  disturbances  in 
my  dormitory  are  a  disgrace  to  me.  Tou  may 
come  to  me  after  dinner,  Louisa,  about  this  little 
matter ;  we  will  settle  it  at  leisure." 

"  I  shall  not  be  here  after  dinner,  ma'am.  I  am 
going  out  to  dinner." 

"  Who  gave  you  permission  to  go  ? 

"  Mr.  Rogers,  ma'am." 

"  Did  he  know  of  your  French  exercise  ?" 

"Not  till  I  told  him  of  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Rogers  made  it  no 
objection  to  your  having  a  holiday  that  you  were 
under  punishment  for  the  second  time  to-day  ?" 


70 


louie's  last  term. 


"He  did  make  it  an  objection,  ma'am,  and  said 
at  first  I  could  not  go." 

"And  what  induced  him  to  change  his  mind, 
pray  ?" 

"  Why,  ma'am,  the  Bishop  asked  him  to  excuse 
me." 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  the  tone  of  subdued 
triumph  in  which  this  "settler"  was  brought 
out ;  the  effect  upon  the  audience  was  strong  and 
instantaneous,  and  Miss  Barlow  changed  color 
angrily,  but  attempted  no  reply.  The  bell  fortu- 
nately rang  for  dinner  at  that  moment,  and  a  sud- 
den change  of  feeling  occurred.  Unfinished 
toilettes  were  hurriedly  dispatched,  and  "all  hands" 
started  for  the  door  within  as  few  seconds  as  practi- 
cable. Julia  hastily  bathed  little  Alice's  swollen 
and  red  eyes,  and  brushed  down  her  rumpled  hair ; 
then  without  a  look  in  the  glass  on  her  own  ac- 
count, took  the  only  half-soothed  child  by  the  hand 
and  followed  the  crowd  downstairs,  without  a 
second  glance  at  Louie. 

Miss  Barlow  had  taken  advantage  of  the  sum- 
mons to  dinner  to  leave  the  scene  of  defeat;  for 
defeated  she  had  been,  having  sacrificed  her  dignity 
to  her  temper,  and  being  got  the  better  of  by  her 
luckier  and  cooler  pupil ;  and  soon  the  room  was 
left  to  her  alone,  Addy  McFarlane  being  the  last  to 


THE  SUN  COMES  OUT. 


71 


go  down.  She  lingered  as  long  as  possible,  longing 
to  say  something  that  would  mar  the  pleasure  of 
her  antagonist's  holiday,  something  that  would 
prick  and  fret  her  through  all  the  excitement  and 
amusement  that  was  in  store  for  her.  But  for  once 
the  failed ;  the  shafts  of  her  malice  fell  off  harm- 
lessly from  the  elastic  good  humor,  that  even  the 
episode  of  splash  and  squall  had  not  permanently 
deranged ;  and  she  had  to  swallow  her  chagrin  as 
best  she  might,  when,  ten  minutes  later,  she  saw  a 
flutter  of  pink  muslin  pass  the  dining-room  win- 
dows, and  knew  that  Louie  was  safely  and  happily 
off  on  the  most  delightful  of  all  possible  larks,  with 
not  a  thought  of  "  the  girls  she  left  behind  her 
nor  with  any  thought,  in  point  of  fact,  that  was  not 
colored  by  the  hope  and  tenderness  and  affection 
that  for  the  time  surrounded  her. 


CHAPTER  V. 


COULEUE    DE  ROSE. 


"  Oh,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The  wild  weed-flower  that  simply  blows? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 


"  But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead 
In  bud  or  bloom  or  blade  may  find, 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 
A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind." 

Tennyson. 

Holidays  !  Schoolgirls,  make  the  most  of  them ; 
there's  nothing  in  after  years  that  bears  any 
analogy  to  them,  nothing  that  answers  to  them  in 
freshness  of  enjoyment  and  intensity  of  excitement. 
The  feel  of  one's  best  clothes  on  a  common  "  worky 
day,  "  the  thought  that  flashes  through  to  make  all 
brighter  by  comparison,  "  what  I  was  doing  this 
time  yesterday ;"  the  meeting  with  people  unasso- 
ciated  with  marks  and  misconduct;  the  seeing 
articles  of  furniture  in  no  way  allied  in  design  or 
application  to  desks  or  blackboards  ;  the  doing  what 

72 


COULETTR  DE  ROSE. 


73 


none  of  the  rest  are  doing,  a  happiness  in  itself;  the 
liberty  of  speech  and  action,  sudden  and  intoxicat- 
ing ;  the  entire  freedom  from  care  and  responsibi- 
lity, the  utter  license  anticipation  has,  the  wild 
strides  imagination  takes ;  all  these  things  you  have 
enjoyed  and  are  enjoying  now,  perhaps,  but  they 
will  cease  when  the  dull  routine  of  your  school  life 
ceases,  they  will  have  an  end  as  soon  as  your  daily 
discipline  has  an  end.  You  earn,  in  a  sort  of  way, 
those  bright  little  gaps  in  your  existence  ;  only  those 
who  work  know  the  luxury  of  rest ;  you  work  now, 
whether  against  your  will  or  with  it,  and  so  you  are 
allowed  to  feel  the  sweets  of  relaxation. 

But  too  many  of  you  will  feel  those  sweets  for 
the  last  time  when  you  turn  your  back  on  school ; 
too  many  of  you  mean  and  hope  to  have  done  with 
wrork  when  you  have  done  with  school,  to  make  it 
all  one  long  holiday,  all  relaxation  and  delight. 
Afi,  pauvrettes !  That  can't  be  ;  things  are  fixed 
inevitably  to  thwart  you  there.  It  is  only  work 
that  can  win  the  reward  of  rest ;  duty  sdone,  that  can 
be  crowned  with  peace ;  pleasures  renounced,  that 
will  come  back  to  you  real  pleasures.  "  There  may 
be  a  cloud  without  a  rainbow,  but  there  cannot  be 
a  rainbow  without  a  cloud."  There  may  be  work 
without  reward,  but  there  cannot  be  reward  with- 
out work. 

4 


74 


louie's  last  term. 


It  was  the  loveliest  possible  June  afternoon,  and 
everything,  in  Louie's  eyes,  from  the  sky  overhead 
to  the  grass  under  foot,  looked  holiday-fashion,  and 
ten  times  brighter  than  they  had  ever  looked 
before,  or  ever  would  again  for  her,  perhaps,  poor 
little  beginner  in  a  world  of  trouble. 

"Louie,  walk,  don't  fly,"  called  out  Tom,  in 
distress.  "  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  pace  at 
which  you  and  Uncle  Rawdon  are  going." 

In  fact,  it  was  a  very  difficult  thing  for  Louie  to 
walk  moderately,  or  talk  moderately,  or  do  anything 
reasonably;  and  Col.  Euthven,  always  watching 
her  changeable  face,  to  please  her  without  letting 
her  know  his  object,  had  said  as  they  descended  the 
Hall  steps : 

"  Let  Tom  and  his  mothqr  saunter  along  at  their 
usual  pace ;  we  will  hurry  on  and  order  dinner. 
Tom's  legs  are  too  short  to  take  him  over  the  ground 
very  fast,  you  see." 

At  this  Tom  was  very  irate,  and  challenged  Louie 
to  a  race  without  further  preliminaries;  but  the 
colonel  said  it  was  unconstitutional,  gave  his  arm 
to  Louie,  and  left  Tom  to  his  fate  and  his  mamma ; 
and  the  result  was,  they  were  in  the  little  parlor  at 
the  hotel  before  the  latter  hove  in  sight  around  the 
corner  of  Main  street. 

"  Take  ofi*  your  bonnet,  Louie,"  said  Col.  Ruth- 


COULEUR  DE  ROSE. 


75 


ven,  ringing  for  dinner,  "  and  do  not  look  so  in- 
tensely excited.  I  shall  be  afraid  to  come  for  you 
again  if  you  don't  learn  to  take  holidays  more 
philosophically.  Why,  child,  how  your  cheeks 
burn.    Tell  me,  are  you  quite  well?" 

"  Quite — oh,  yes  I"  she  answered,  moving  rest- 
lessly about  the  room,  looking  out  of  the  windows 
and  into  the  plaster  vases  on  the  mantelpiece,  and 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  books  on  the  table. 
"  I'm  well  now.  I've  had  a  headache  for  ever  so 
long,  but  it's  all  gone  since  you  came  for  me.  In- 
deed, sir,  I'll  be  as  philosophical  as  you  wish,  only 
don't  say  I  shan't  have  any  more  holidays.  They're 
the  only  things  I  look  forward  to  with  the  smallest 
pleasure.    All  the  rest  is  hateful." 

"  That's  not  as  it  ought  to  be,  Louie ;  I  hoped  to 
have  found  you  contented  and  happy,  but  I  knew 
you  were  the  reverse  from  the  moment  I  saw  you. 
What  is  it  ?    Can  you  not  tell  me  ?" 

But  at  this  moment,  the  noisy  advent  of  Tom 
threw  the  party  into  some  confusion,  and  excited 
many  remonstrances  from  all ;  then  dinner  was 
brought  up — such  a  nice,  hot  little  dinner,  with  an 
immense  preponderance  of  dessert,  great  varieties  of 
tarts,  and  cakes,  and  puddings,  and  a  pyramid  of 
ice-cream,  all,  of  course,  out  of  compliment  to 
school-girl  taste,  for  Mrs.  Appleton  was  a  dyspeptic, 


76 


louie's  last  term. 


and  never  touched  any  after-dinner  vanities,  and 
the  colonel  seemed  to  have  no  very  great  apprecia- 
tion of  them ;  so  there  was  a  vast  amount  of  work 
to  be  done  by  the  juveniles.  Tom  certainly  did 
not  shirk  his  duty,  but  Louie,  though  she  fancied 
she  wanted  everything,  and  was  in  an  ecstasy  at 
every  new  delicacy,  was  far  too  much  excited  to 
eat. 

"  Alas  !  that  eyes  like  thin© 
Should  sparkle  at  an  apple-pie  !" 

cried  Tom,  in  a  brief,  unemployed  interval  before 
his  plate  came  back. 

"  Alas !  that  they  should  '  take  it  out  in  spark- 
ling,5 "  said  the  colonel.  "  Louie,  you're  a  little 
hypocrite.    You  have  eaten  nothing." 

"  Oh,  sir,  did  you  mean  me  to  ?  For  you've  kept 
me  so  busy  laughing,  there  hasn't  been  any  time  to 
do  it  in." 

"  He'd  have  given  an  intermission  if  you'd  asked 
him.  Five  minutes  between  each  joke;  wouldn't 
you,  Uncle  Rawdon  ?" 

"  I  should  have  needed  fifteen  after  the  Scotch 
gentleman  at  the  cafe.  Oh,  I  shall  make  great 
capital  of  that  when  I  go  back  to  school ;  I'll  make 
the  girls  shout  over  it  some  night  before  Miss  Bar- 
low comes  upstairs.    Miss  Barlow  hates  to  hear  us 


COULEUR  DE  ROSE. 


77 


laugh ;  she  thinks  she  '  smells  a  mice 5  if  anybody 
titters.'' 

"  She's  not  far  wrong,  ordinarily,  I'm  afraid," 
said  the  colonel,  laughing.  "  If  school-girls  are  at 
all  analogous  to  school-boys,  there  is  good  cause  for 
apprehension  to  an  unenlightened  party  when  a 
titter  occurs." 

"  Oh !  I  assure  you,  we  don't  dare  to  poke  fun  at 
Miss  Barlow.  She's  far  too  sharp  for  that.  Though 
everybody  in  the  dormitory  hates  her,  they  all 
mind,  after  a  fashion,  and  she  keeps  sublime  order." 

"Ah,  Louie,"  said  Mrs.  Appleton,  "I'm  afraid 
you  are  growing  a  little  rebellious.  I  hope  you  are 
not  getting  to  think  with  too  many  school-children, 
that  your  teachers  are  your  natural  enemies. 
That's  a  too  common  mistake,  and  makes  the  rela- 
tion doubly  hard  to  both." 

"Wo,  indeed,"  cried  Louie,  warmly.  "Dear 
Mrs.  Appleton,  I  hope  you  don't  think  that  of  me. 
I  don't  hate  all  my  teachers  by  any  means.  I  love 
Miss  Stanton  dearly,  and  the  Matron  is  as  good  as 
she  can  be,  and  Mr.  Rogers,  and  Miss  Emily,  and 
Miss  Wells,  I  like  extremely ;  even  Miss  Marbais, 
though  she's  strict  and  sharp,  is  just  and  sensible, 
and  don't  do  anything  for  spite,  and  I  don't  have 
any  trouble  in  getting  along  with  her ;  but  Miss 
Barlow  is  so  mean  and  so  ugly,  that  I  can't  help  it, 


78 


louie's  last  term. 


but  I  do  detest  the  very  sight  of  her.  Don't  look 
so,  dear  Mrs.  Appleton !  I  know  its  wicked, 
but" — - 

"  c  It  is  your  nature '  to,"  put  in  Tom,  very  much 
afraid  of  the  conversation  taking  a  moral  turn,  in 
which  event  he  was  sure  of  getting  many  bruises. 
"  By  the  way,  how's  your  friend,  the  McFarlane  ?" 

"  Finely,  thank  you ;  a  degree  fonder  of  me  than 
ever.  But,  oh !  let  me  tell  you  how  beautifully  I 
used  her  up  in  French  class  to  day." 

"  Do,"  said  Tom  with  great  interest.  And  Louie, 
with  much  naivete,  but  considerable  cleverness  and 
spirit,  proceeded  to  recount  the  little  stratagem  al- 
ready mentioned,  by  which  she  had  appropriately 
rewarded  Adelaide  McFarlane's  "  meanness ;"  and 
her  audience,  sorely  against  their  consciences, 
laughed  an  involuntary  applause.  Sweet  Mrs. 
Appleton  thought  it  was  dreadfully  naughty,  and 
put  her  cambric  handkerchief  before  her  face,  hop- 
ing that  nobody  would  see  how  much  it  diverted 
her,  while  the  colonel,  after  a  short,  amused  laugh, 
looked  down  at  the  young  sinner  with  a  grave 
shake  of  the  head  but  a  droll  sparkle  of  the  eye. 
Louie  had  a  secret  but  comfortable  conviction  that, 
no  matter  what  enormities  she  might  have  been  en- 
gaged in,  Col.  Buthven  was  and  wrould  be  her 
friend  through  them  all.    Tom  was  vociferous  in 


COULEUK  DE  ROSE. 


79 


his  applause ;  he  had  to  go  away  from  the  table, 
and  throw  himself  on  the  sofa,  rolling  over  and 
over  in  a  state  of  uncontrollable  entertainment. 

He  was  only  roused  from  it  when  the  subject  of 
the  afternoon's  amusement  was  brought  up  for  dis- 
cussion ;  the  question,  shall  we  send  for  a  carriage 
and  take  a  drive,  or  go  for  a  boat  and  take  a  row, 
had  considerable  interest  for  him.  He  knew  if  the 
latter  plan  prevailed,  his  uncle  would  insist  upon 
his  taking  an  oar,  and  Tom  by  nature  was  averse  to 
exertion ;  so  he  pricked  up  his  ears,  and  said  cutely 
as  soon  as  the  suggestions  were  made : 

" Louie  hates  boating;  I  think  she'd  enjoy  a 
drive  more.    Wouldn't  you,  Louie  ?" 

"  Oh,  I've  no  preferences,"  said  Louie,  mischiev- 
ously. "  If  it  will  be  any  disappointment  to  you  to 
give  up  rowing,  I  think  we'd  better  go,  by  all 
means." 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  would  both  enjoy  going 
the  way  you  didn't  want  to,  to  spite  the  other,  but 
I  shall  not  indulge  you  this  time.  Madame  shall 
have  the  casting  vote ;  voyons,  shall  we  drive  or 
sail?" 

Mrs.  Appleton,  who  had  a  secret  terror  of  the 
water,  of  course  inclined  to  the  drive,  so  in  twenty 
minutes  a  carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  the  whole 
party  were  disposing  of  themselves  in  it.    It  was  a 


80 


louie's  last  term. 


phaeton,  and  Col.  Euthven  proposed  driving,  and 
suggested  to  Louie  to  take  the  seat  by  him  in  front. 
Tom  was  quite  jealous  and  chagrined,  he  had 
aspired  to  that  honor  himself ;  and  after  they  were 
started,  Louie  said,  low,  to  Col.  Ruthven,  "  Per- 
haps I'd  better  give  the  seat  to  Tom,  I  think  he's 
disappointed." 

"  Nonsense,  Tom  rides  beside  me  every  day,  he 
may  very  well  afford  to  sit  on  the  back  seat  like  a 
gentleman,  once  in  a  while.  Besides,  I  should  be 
disappointed  if  you  changed  your  place,  so  you'd 
have  to  be  distressed  either  way." 

"Well  then,  sir,  I  think  I'll  let  Tom  be  dis- 
appointed. He  gets  over  it,  I  know,  for  I've  often 
seen  him,  but  I  don't  know  how  it  might  affect  you 
— I  never  saw  you  disappointed." 

"I  hope  you  never  may,  Louie." 

"Oh,  Tom!"  cried  Louie,  looking  back.  "Isn't 
this  splendid !    Ar'nt  we  going  fast !" 

"  Fast !"  responded  that  blase  lad,  contemptuously. 
"  I  am  astonished  at  you,  Louisa.  A  girl  who  has 
ridden  time  and  again  behind  my  uncle  Rawdon's 
bays,  to  say  such  a  thing  as  that,  is  perfectly  dis- 
heartening, perfectly  !  Why,  my  dear  child,  we 
are  crawling,  positively,  nothing  more.  Those  old 
beasts  couldn't  get  off  a  walk  if  they  tried." 

"That's  all  spite  and  envy  because  you're  not 


COULEUR  DE  ROSE. 


81 


driving  yourself.  Tom,  I  blush  for  you.  We  are 
passing  everything  on  the  road,  if  we  ar'nt  of£  a 
walk." 

"  Yes,  all  the  fences  and  trees.  Oh,  Uncle  Raw- 
don,  do  drive  round  by  the  Hall !  I  want  to  get  a 
glimpse  at  the  McFarlane ;  Louie  says  this  is  the 
hour  the  girls  are  all  on  the  bank,  and  it's  a  good 
chance.  Besides,  she  and  I  agreed  it  would  be  so 
nice  to  dash  past  the  house,  and  make  all  the  girls 
die  of  envy." 

"Now,  Tom!"  cried  Louie  in  an  agony  of  blush- 
ing, "you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say  so." 

That  some  such  confidence  had  passed  between 
them  however  was  pretty  clear,  since  an  entirely 
unfounded  charge  could  hardly  have  produced  such 
an  excessive  embarrassment;  but  Louie  begged  Col. 
Ruthven  so  earnestly  to  drive  the  other  way,  that 
he  could  not  but  comply.  She  soon  forgot  all  about 
her  embarrassment,  however,  and  the  folly  of  excit- 
ing envy,  and  the  vanity  of  triumph,  when  they 
reached  the  open  fields  and  the  rich  June-crowned 
woods  of  the  neighboring  country.  It  was  so  sweet, 
so  fresh,  so  peaceful,  the  erring,  willful,  discontented, 
child  was  for  the  moment  soothed  into  quiet  reve- 
rence and  gratitude. 

"  Oh,  if  such  evenings  as  this  would  always  last," 

she  exclaimed  involuntarily,  as  they  drove  home- 

4* 


S2 


louie's  last  term. 


ward,  the  rosy  sunset  slowly  fading  out  of  the  sky, 
"  it  wouldn't  be  so  hard  to  be  good." 

"  i  But  patience  ;  there  may  come  a  time,'  "  said 
the  low  voice  of  her  godmother. 

"  Is  it  wrong  to  wish  for  it,  I  wonder  ?"  but  Louie 
said  it  in  so  low  a  tone  none  but  her  companion 
caught  the  words. 

"  "Wish  for  what,  child?" 

"  For  the  end  of  trouble,  and  trying,  and  vexation 
and  sin." 

"  My  child,  God  will  send  the  end  when  He  sees 
we  are  perfected." 

Col.  Ruthven  looked  for  a  moment  earnestly  and 
anxiously  at  his  young  companion  ;  her  tone  had 
been  so  strange,  low  as  it  was,  that  it  startled  him ; 
her  lips  were  compressed,  and  her  dark  eyes  had  a 
momentary  look  of  suffering  that  he  had  never  seen 
in  them  before.  But  it  was  only  momentary ; 
before  he  could  put  his  solicitude  into  words,  the 
cloud  was  gone,  and  with  more  zest  than  ever,  she 
was  laughing  with  Tom,  the  color  again  in  her  face 
and  the  animation  in  her  eye. 

Only  once  again  that  evening  he  noticed  the  same 
look.  Mrs.  Appleton  had  gone  to  her  room  immedi- 
ately after  tea,  ill  with  a  headache,  and  while  his 
uncle  had  gone  down  to  smoke,  Tom  had  under- 
taken to  entertain  the  young  guest.    He  had  repre- 


COULEUR  DE  ROSE. 


83 


sented  to  her  the  attractiveness  of  the  balcony,  and 
as  Louie  was,  according  to  him,  eminently  a  girl 
always  ready  to  do  what  you  asked  her,  of  course 
she  acceded  to  his  proposal  to  sit  there.  It  was 
very  attractive,  certainly ;  the  moon  was  full,  and 
the  night  serene,  and  through  a  gap  in  the  trees 
there  was  a  glimpse  of  the  river,  with  the  moon 
making  a  path  of  glory  along  it.  But  though  it 
was  an  attractive,  it  was  anything  but  a  prudent 
situation  for  the  two  children,  heated  with  a  series 
of  waltzes  that  had  succeeded  the  tea,  and  with  no 
other  covering  to  Louie's  bare  shoulders  than  her 
white  muslin  mantilla,  and  with  that  damp  breeze 
coming  across  the  river.  It  was  very  imprudent, 
but  Louie  never  thought  of  that,  and  she  sat 
leaning  against  the  iron  railing,  with  Tom  sit- 
ting at  her  feet  on  the  sill  of  the  French  window, 
chatting  harmlessly  and  childlishly  for  a  long, 
long  while. 

But  this  had  been  a  day  of  great  length  and 
some  exertion  to  Tom,  and  this  was  an  unusual  hour 
for  him  to  be  still  out  of  bed,  and  by  and  by  Louie 
was  not  surprised  to  find  that  his  active  tongue 
flagged,  and  a  sort  of  incoherency  and  debility 
crept  into  his  -usually  terse,  nervous  style  of  lan- 
guage, and  his  brisk  sentences  degenerated  into  dis- 
jointed and  unmeaning  attempts  to  prove  he  was 


84 


louie's  last  term. 


perfectly  wide  awake,  and  finally  ceased  altogether, 
and  he  slept. 

When  Col.  Euthven,  half  an  hour  later,  came  up- 
stairs, he  found  his  little  nephew  asleep  with  his 
head  on  the  sill  of  the  window,  and  Louie,  unmoved 
from  her  first  attitude,  leaning  against  the  iron  rail- 
ing with  her  chin  on  her  clasped  hands,  looking 
intently  across  the  shining  river.  He  was  startled 
again  as  he  saw  that  almost  fierce  look  in  her  eyes ; 
she  was  pale,  and  her  white  drapery  and  the  white 
moonlight  made  him  wonder  almost  if  this  were  the 
same  child  he  had  left  an  hour  ago,  so  rosy  and 
happy  and  careless. 

"Louie!"  he  exclaimed,  almost  angrily,  "what 
are  you  doing  ?  You  have  not  surely  been  sitting 
out  there  since  I  left  you?  I  could  not  have 
believed  you  could  have  been  so  imprudent." 

After  he  had  roused  Tom,  however,  and  brought 
them  in,  he  was  surer  than  ever  that  she  had  done 
an  imprudent  thing  ;  her  lips  were  purple,  and  cold 
shivering  chills  crept  over  her,  making  her  teeth 
chatter  in  a  tell-tale  way.  He  brought  her  a  warm 
shawl  and  wrapped  her  in  it,  and  rang  for  his  sis- 
ter's maid  to  take  her  to  her  room,  parting  with  her 
with  many  injunctions  to  go  immediately  to  bed, 
and  to  see  that  she  had  plenty  of  blankets  to  keep 
her  warm. 


COULEUR,  DE  ROSE. 


85 


Letty,  the  maid,  was  not  a  very  experienced  per- 
son, and  her  offers  of  assistance  were  not  particu- 
larly urgent,  so  Louie  soon  dismissed  her,  preferring 
to  undress  herself.  Letty  reappeared,  however, 
after  a  few  minutes,  with  a  glass  of  something  very 
hot  and  sweet  and  strong,  that  the  colonel  had  sent 
her  to  take.  She  thanked  Letty  and  desired  her  to 
thank  the  colonel,  bolted  the  door  after  her,  put  her 
lips  to  the  glass,  turned  up  her  nose  very  disgustedly 
and  set  the  glass  on  the  mantelpiece  in  an  entirely 
undiminished  state,  where  it  stayed  till  the  cham- 
bermaid took  it  away  in  the  morning. 

That  night  was  a  very  wretched  one  to  Louie. 
Whatever  had  been  her  troubles  before,  she  had  al- 
ways been  able  to  get  rid  of  them  at  night,  and 
though  she  might  have  cried  herself  to  sleep,  slept 
none  the  less  soundly  for  it.  But  now  she  crept 
shivering  and  cold  to  bed,  and  for  a  long  while  lay 
awake,  shaking  with  chills.  Then  she  fell  into  a  sort 
of  uneasy  doze,  from  which  she  waked  soon,  burning 
hot,  smothering  with  the  blankets,  stifling  for  want 
of  air ;  and  from  that  time  till  morning,  tossed  from 
side  to  side  of  the  wide  bed,  uncomfortable  every 
way,  more  restless  and  wretched  than  she  had  ever 
been  before. 

Would  morning  never  come?  would  those  cold 
stars  never  go  away,  shining  so  fixedly  at  her  through 


86 


louie's  last  term. 


the  small  panes  of  the  window  below  the  bed? 
would  there  never  be  any  stir  in  the  house  again? 
it  was  so  dismally  still!  such  a  headache,  and  such 
miserable  homesick  thoughts  as  came  with  it ;  and 
such  a  dull  aching  in  all  her  limbs !  But  the  long- 
est night  must  have  an  end,  and  even  this  one  ter- 
minated at  last,  and  a  cold  grey  dawn  succeeded  it, 
during  which  she  found  a  short  repose,  from 
which  Letty  unfeelingly  aroused  her  about  seven 
o'clock. 

When  Louie  came  into  the  breakfast-room,  no 
one  would  have  guessed  the  sort  of  night  she  had 
spent ;  she  had  such  a  bright  color,  and  her  lips  were 
so  red,  that  the  heaviness  of  her  eyes  and  the  un- 
steadiness of  her  hand  passed  unnoticed.  *  She  rather 
evaded  the  breakfast  question,  playing  with  her 
knife  and  fork  a  good  deal  more  than  she  used  them; 
but  then  that  was  nothing  very  unusual  with  her ;  ex- 
citement invariably  took  all  her  appetite  away.  Tom, 
indeed,  seemed  much  the  greater  sufferer  from  the 
evening's  folly,  having  an  unmistakable  attack  of 
the  "  snuffles,"  and  looking  very  stupid  and  forlorn. 
They  were  never  to  be  trusted  again,  the  colonel 
said.  Tom  should  have  a  nurse  to  look  after  him, 
and  Louie  must  never  again  be  out  of  Miss  Barlow's 
sight. 

UI  don't  know  which  would  be  the  most  to  be 


COTJLEUR  DE  ROSE. 


87 


pitied  in  that  case,  Miss  Barlow  or  me,"  said  Louie, 
laughing. 

"I  know,"  cried  Tom,  maliciously,  "Miss  Barlow 
would  be  the  worst  off  by  great  odds." 

"  Oh,  she  wTould,  would  she?  Then  we  can't  even 
speculate  upon  the  wretched  state  of  the  nurse  Col. 
Buthven  promises  you.  I'm  sure,  Tom,  I  pity  her 
from  my  heart,  if  you're  always  as  cross  when  you're 
waked  as  you  were  last  night." 

u  But  I'm  not ;  you're  not  always  by,  you  know, 
and  in  the  absence  of  any  provoking  cause,  I 
am  good-natured,  everybody  allows.  Now,  that's 
enough  for  once,  Louisa ;  please  to  hand  me  a  muffin." 

"A  buffin,"  repeated  the  young  lady,  handing 
him  the  plate. 

"Uncle  Bawdon,  speak  to  her,  it  interferes  with 
my  digestion  to  be  annoyed  at  meal-time." 

Small  Tom  was  such  a  parrot,  and  used  so  ludi- 
crously the  phrases  and  mannerisms  of  his  elders, 
that  no  one  could  help  smiling  at  his  impertinences. 
He  was  clever  and  sensible,  too,  with  all  his  spoiled- 
child  ways,  and  though  he  had  never  known  any- 
thing in  his  life  but  indulgence,  and  was  shrewd 
enough  to  see  that  he  was  the  most  important  mem- 
ber of  the  family  circle,  and  could  in  ordinary  cases 
carry  everything  before  him,  he  did  not  abuse  his 
power  very  much,  but  contented  himself  with  hav- 


S3 


louie's  last  term. 


ing  his  own  way  quietly,  and  enjoying  moderately 
what  would  have  been  the  ruin  of  almost  any  other 
boy.  He  was  far  too  clever  not  to  see  that  his 
mother  had  no  other  object  in  life  than  his  advance- 
ment and  advantage,  and  that  he  was  his  uncle 
Rawdon's  pride  and  darling;  that  he  had  more 
money  now  than  any  other  boy  he  knew,  and  would 
have,  when  he  was  a  man,  more  than  most  men 
have ;  but  to  save  him  from  being  spoiled  by  all  this, 
he  had  been  blessed  with  a  more  than  ordinary 
share  of  sterling  good  sense  and  sobriety ;  he  was 
one  of  those  children  who  seem  born  with  good 
principles,  self-reliance  and  steady  from  their  baby- 
hood, and  who  never  go  very  far  wTrong  in  the  out- 
ward conduct  of  their  lives,  at  least. 

The  temptations  of  such  are  very  subtile,  and  lie 
so  far  below  the  surface,  that  they  are  often  harder 
to  combat  than  the  volatile  passions  of  more  impul- 
sive natures.  Self-reliance  may  grow  into  self-con- 
fidence ;  steady  aims  are  not  always  high  aims : 
hardihood  and  resolution,  if  they  are  not  Christian- 
ized, may  prove  snares  and  impediments  in  the  way 
of  life,  may  harden  and  fix  the  character  without 
strengthening  it.  It  is  very  difficult  for  a  man  who 
finds  by  experience  that  he  is  wiser  and  discreeter 
than  his  neighbors,  to  preserve  that  humility  that  is 
necessary  to  make  his  goodness  acceptable  with 


COULEUK  DE  ROSE. 


89 


God.  It  is  very  difficult,  and  nothing  but  the  grace 
of  that  God  can  keep  him  from  the  most  hopeless 
of  all  states,  the  state  of  a  hard,  cold,  self-satisfied 
man  of  the  world,  irreproachably  moral,  hopelessly 
irreligious. 

But  it  isn't  best  to  go  into  mourning  for  poor 
little  Tom  yet ;  he  is  but  a  tiny  lad,  and  though  he 
has,  in  that  sharp,  shrewd,  sensible  brain  and  unen- 
thusiastic  temperament  the  germs  of  such  a  fate, 
they  may  not  ripen  into  evil ;  God's  grace,  won  by 
his  mother's  prayers,  and  fostered  by  her  love  and 
daily  teaching,  may  overshadow  and  overcome 
them.  Besides,  he  has  before  him  in  his  uncle,  an 
example  that  may  well  stir  his  admiration,  and 
being  as  far  as  it  is  possible  for  him  to  be,  impressed 
with  a  desire  to  copy  it,  perhaps  he  may  succeed. 
He  is  a  child  of  few  admirations,  few  friendships, 
but  he  loves  mamma,  admires  Uncle  Rawdon,  and 
and  is  absolutely  fond  of  Louie ;  and  as  they  are  all 
safe  and  proper  objects  of  affection,  possibly  they 
may  do  much  toward  making  him  the  sort  of  boy 
they'd  like  to  see  him. 

"I'm  jealous  of  you,  Lou,"  he  said,  sauntering  up 
to  the  sofa  where  that  young  lady  sat  bending  over 
a  sketch-book  of  Col.  Euthven's,  while  its  owner, 
standing  beside  the  window,  smoked  a  fragrant 
Havana,  or  leaning  forward  pointed  out  to  her  the 


90 


louie's  last  teem. 


charms  of  different  views,  and  explained  the  odd 
sounding  long  foreign  names  below  them.  "  I  verily 
believe  Uncle  Rawdon  cares  as  much  for  you  as  he 
does  for  me." 

"As  much!"  cried  Louie,  throwing  up  her  eyes. 
"I  shouldn't  be  contented  if  I  didn't  think  he  liked 
me  twice  as  well.  Don't  you  now,  sirl  Please  say 
yes !" 

Col.  Ruthven  looked  down  at  her;  though  she 
was  very  arch  and  laughing  and  looked  prettier 
than  usual,  the  question  did  not  seem  to  please  him, 
however  the  face  might:  after  a  moment's  scrutiny 
of  it,  too  frank  and  childish  not  to  be  read  through 
at  a  glance,  he  averted  his  own  with  something  be- 
tween a  sigh  and  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  said 
carelessly  as  he  moved  away. 

"What  do  such  children  as  vou  know  of  degrees 
of  liking?  Tops  and  kites  will  keep  Tom's  heart, 
and  sugar-plums  will  win  Louie's  for  a  good  many 
years  yet.  That's  the  sort  of  affection  you  prize, 
rtest  ce  pas,  vies  jpetits  ?" 

But  they  did  not  have  time  or  opportunity  to 
resent  the  suggestion ;  the  door  closed  behind  the 
speaker  and  they  were  left  alone.  Tom  took  some 
time  to  digest  the  idea,  while  Louie  thoughtfully 
turned  the  leaves  of  the  sketch-book. 

"That  was  ugly  of   Uncle  Rawdon,"  said  the 


COULEUR  DE  ROSE. 


91 


youth  at  length,  with  considerable  energy.  "  I  dorCt 
like  him  for  his  tops  and  kites.  I'd  put  all  he  ever 
gave  me  in  the  fire,  if  I  thought  he  was  in  earnest. 
I  never  liked  anybody  yet  for  what  they  gave  me. 
Uncle  Richard  gives  me  as  many  things  as  Uncle 
Rawdon,  and  I  don't  care  that  for  him,  and  don't 
pretend  to,  either.  I  say,  Louie,  you  don't  think  he 
meant  it?" 

"  No,  oh  no  !  he  couldn't,  something  must  have 
vexed  him  or  he  meant  to  tease  us.  Perhaps  he 
didn't  like  my  asking  him  that ;  perhaps  it  sounded 
saucy — I'm  very  sorry." 

"  He  oughtn't  to  complain  of  our  being  saucy, 
while  he  spoils  us  so.  Why  he  pets  you  to  death, 
and  lets  you  say  and  do  just  as  you  choose,  always, 
and  likes  of  all  things  to  have  you  droll  and  pert.  No 
it  couldn't  have  been  that — Hang !  I  hate  to  have 
him  out  with  me.  I  think  I  care  more  for  him  than 
for  anybody  else.  He's  such  a  brick,  Louie !  He's 
such  a  sort  of  a  man  that  it  makes  you  feel  mean 
to  have  him  think  you're  mean,  even  for  a  minute. 
"What  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  like  him  when  I'm 
grown  up  !  To  make  people  afraid  of  me  without 
any  fuss  and  bluster,  and  to  be  so  manly  and  so 
clever  and  so  quiet.  Do  you  know,  I  think  he's 
the  finest  gentleman  I  ever  saw  ?" 

"  Except  the  Bishop,"  said  Louie,  thoughtfully. 


92 


louie's  last  term. 


"  Well,  yes,  except  the  Bishop,  I  suppose. 
Uncle  Rawdon  says  himself  the  Bishop  is  the  most 
elegant  man  he  knows,  and  I'm  sure  he  ought  to 
know.  It  must  be  very  fine  to  be  that  sort  of  a 
gentleman,  a  gentleman  all  the  way  through — no 
pretence,  no  make  believe,  no  grand  airs ;  the  very 
carmen  in  the  streets  could  tell  the  difference 
between  a  gentleman  that  wanted  to  be  thought  a 
gentleman,  and  a  gentleman  that  never  thought 
anything  about  it,  but  was  just  himself,  just  involun- 
tary, just  outside  as  he  was  in  his  own  heart." 

"  Children  !  are  you  ready  to  take  a  walk  with 
me  ?"  called  out  Mrs.  Appleton  from  the  other 
room. 

Louie  said,  "  Yes  ma'am,"  rising  slowly,  and  Tom 
put  away  the  sketch-book  for  her  with  more  consi- 
derateness  than  usual. 

It  was  such  a  sweet  summer  morning  that  the 
walk,  though  rather  listlessly  begun,  soon  proved 
a  pleasure.  There  was  just  animation  enough  in 
the  streets  of  the  quiet  old  town  to  amuse  the  child- 
ren, while  Mrs.  Appleton  stopped  for  the  replen- 
ishment of  Louie's  very  hardly  used  and  unendur- 
ing  wardrobe,  and  the  hours  slipped  quickly  away. 
There  were  but  two  more  left  of  Lduie's  holiday, 
her  heart  told  her,  with  a  pang,  as  the  clock  struck 
eleven — but  two  hours  more  of  pleasure  left. 


*    CHAPTER  VI. 

ASHES    OF  EOSES. 

"  Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures, 
Can  make  us  nappy  lang ; 
The  heart  aye's  the  part  aye, 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang^ 

Burns. 

"  Where  can  Uncle  Rawdon  be  all  this  time  i" 
said  Tom  discontentedly,  as  they  came  out  of  the 
shoemaker's  on  the  corner.  "  It's  taken  him  a 
monstrous  while  to  smoke  that  cigar. — Ah !  there 
he  comes  up  the  street.  He's  motioning  us  to  stop ; 
wait  a  minute,  mamma,"  as  Mrs.  Appleton  was 
turning  down  a  cross  street  on  the  way  to  the  dress- 
maker's. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Col.  Ruthven, 
joining  them  on  the  corner. 

u  Why,  Louie  tells  me  she  has  no  dress  nice 
enough  to  wear  to  the  Bishop's  on  the  Fourth,  and 
I've  just  being  getting  her  a  white  muslin,  and  we 
are  on  our  way  to  th.e  dressmaker's  to  have  it  fitted. 
We've  not  much  time  to  spare  either,  I  fear." 

93 


loijie's  last  term. 


"  It's  just  eleven,"  said  the  gentleman  looking  at 
his  watch.  "  If  your  artist  does  not  keep  you  long, 
we  may  have  time  for  a  drive  before  lunch.  Would 
you  like  it,  Louie  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you,"  she  returned  timidly  and 
with  some  confusion,  not  quite  certain  whether  she 
was  restored  to  the  favor  she  had  so  innocently  and 
inadvertently  lost  an  hour  before.  He  saw  her 
embarrassment  and  looking  down  kindly  at  her, 
said  with  a  smile : 

"It's  hardly  matter  for  gratitude,  I  think,  at 
least  as  yet." 

He  gave  his  arm  to  his  sister,  and  Louie  and  Tom 
followed  at  a  little  distance.  The  dressmaker  lived 
in  a  little  square  box  of  a  white  house,  with  vividly 
green  blinds  and  a  little  square  green  yard  in  front 
of  it ;  Tom  said  it  hurt  his  eyes,  the  green  and  the 
white  were  so  extremely  bright,  and  he  rather 
grumbled  at  having  to  wait  and  walk  up  and  down 
outside  with  his  uncle.  However,  Col.  Euthven 
treated  him  to  a  little  longer  walk,  having  no  faith 
in  the  dressmaker's  ten  minutes,  and  they  made  the 
tour  of  Main  street  and  the  bank,  pausing  at  more 
than  one  shop  by  the  way,  and  had  several  minutes 
to  spare  waiting  by  the  gate,  before  the  door  opened 
and  the  ladies  were  released. 

"Well,  is  she  going  to  make  you  very  fine?" 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 


95 


asked  Tom,  opening  the  gate.  "  I  should  think 
she'd  been  trying  on  forty  dresses,  instead  of  one 
wretched  white  muslin,  from  the  time  she  took." 

"  I'm  sure  we  haven't  been  long." 

"Of  course  not ;  ladies  never  think  they're  long 
when  they  are  pow-wow-ing  over  a  fashion  plate 
with  a  dressmaker.  I  always  6  settle  my  brains  for 
a  long  winter's  nap,'  when  mamma  leaves  me  in 
the  carriage  while  she  just  runs  into  Roumier's,  to 
give  an  order  about  the  steeve  trimming  of  a  morn- 
ing dress  or  some  such  vanity." 

"  Tom,  I  fear  you  embellish." 

"  Louie,  I  don't.  Mamma  will  tell  you  so  her- 
self, it  is  the  way  all  ladies  do,  but  I'm  sorry  to  find 
you're  getting  so  young-ladyfied  as  to  do  it  too. 
Last  year  you  wouldn't :  a  whole  half  hour  under 
the  dressmaker's  hands ! — I  wouldn't  have  been  the 
dressmaker  !  But  now  you're  beginning  to  think 
about  fine  clothes  and  looking  pretty,  and  I  don't 
think  you're  worth  as  much  by  a  third  as  you  used 
to  be.  Uncle  Eawdon,  don't  you  think  it's  tire- 
some in  Louie  to  grow  so  much  older  ?  I  don't 
think  she's  half  as  nice  this  term." 

"  Oh,  Tom!"  cried  Louie,  half  vexed,  "how  silly 
you  are.  I'm  sure  no  girl  of  my  age  ever  put  on 
less  young  lady  airs;  and  if  I  am  tiresome,  I  can't 
help  it.    You'd  be  tiresome,  too,  if — if"  


96  louie's  last  term. 

"  If  what,  my  little  girl  ?"  asked  Col.  Ruthven, 
kindly. 

"  If  he  were  as  far  away  from  his  mother,  as  I 
am  from  mine,  and  if  he  had  just  the  sort  of  a 
time  at  school  as  I  have,  no  pleasures  and  no  holi- 
days— and  everything  so  hateful." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Louie !  you  know  I  didn't  mean 
it." 

"  Louie,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Appleton,  laying  her 
hand  affectionately  on  the  girl's,  "  I  am  afraid  all's 
not  quite  right  in  your  own  heart,  when  everything 
is  hateful.  School  is  a  little  wTorld,  and  is  pretty 
cold  and  hard,  sometimes,  just  like  the  great  world  ; 
but  to  us  ourselves,  it  is  very  much  as  we  make  it. 
If  we  choose  to  be  misanthropical,  why,  we  shall 
see  only  wThat  is  cold  and  hard  and  hateful  in  the 
people  in  it ;  but  if  we  have  a  real  love  for  good- 
ness and  holiness  in  our  hearts,  we  shall  be  pretty 
sure  to  find  out  something  answering  to  those  feel- 
ings in  others.  And  people  will  treat  us  according 
to  our  treatment  of  them  ;  we  can  make  an  atmos- 
phere of  gentleness  and  charity  around  us  that  will 
affect  every  one  who  comes  near  us  ;  or  we  can  be 
so  perverse  and  unlovable,  that  even  our  best 
friends  will  catch  the  contagion  and  will  be  repul- 
sive in  their  turn.  Don't  think  I  mean  to  lecture 
you,  my  little  god-daughter ;  I  wouldn't  for  the 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 


97 


world,  seem  unkind  ;  but  you  know  I  am  too  fond 
of  you  to  bear  to  see  you  out  of  the  way  of  being 
happy,  and  your  dear  mother  left  you,  in  a  sort  of 
way,  to  my  protection.  What  should  I  say  to  her, 
if  she  should  come  back  and  find  her  little  Louie, 
whom  she  left  so  docile  and  affectionate,  a  discon- 
tented, imperious,  impatient  girl?  How  could  I 
excuse  myself  for  not  having  run  the  risk  of  doing 
a  little  disagreeable  c  lecturing  V  " 

There  are  not  many  girls  who  can  understand  what 
it  was  that  made  Louie  start  so  nervously  and  repulse 
the  affection  that  she  was  longing  to  receive,  so 
shortly  ;  there  are  not  many,  perhaps,  but  there  are 
some  who  can  understand  the  rush  of  feeling  that  her 
mother's  name  brought,  the  agony  of  unhappiness 
and  tenderness,  and  yet  the  keen  shame  of  betraying 
her  emotion,  the  dread  of  crying  before  Col.  Ruth- 
ven,  and  of  making  Tom  laugh  at  her,  as  laugh  he 
surely  would  ;  in  a  moment  more  she  would  have 
done  it — catching  her  breath  and  looking  away, 
she  said  quickly,  and  with  an  unnaturally  cold 
laugh : 

"  Oh,  mother  won't  blame  you ;  she  knows  I'm 
very  bad,  she  knows  lectures  don't  do  me  any 
good." 

"  I  wish  lectures  could  be  abolished  by  act  of 
Congress,"  cried  Tom.     "  They're  pernicious  in 
5 


98 


louie's  last  teem. 


tlieir  tendencies;  they've  done  me  an  immense 
amount  of  harm." 

Mrs.  Appleton  sighed  low  and  humbly,  while  the 
others  laughed ;  it  was  strange,  how  cold  and  per- 
verse the  two  children,  whom  she  loved  most,  were. 
She  hardly  knew  how  to  reach  them ;  Louie,  cer- 
tainly, she  failed  to  comprehend ;  at  once  affection- 
ate and  repulsing  affection,  warm-hearted,  yet  per- 
verse and  trifling.  Five  minutes  alone  with  her 
would  have  solved  it ;  Louie  would  have  given 
anything  for  them ;  they  would  have  been  an  un- 
speakable relief  to  Mrs.  Appleton,  but  they  never 
came. 

u  The  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  was  dead," 

Eternity  could  alone  make  up  to  them. 

"  Ah !"  cried  Tom,  "  good  bye  to  our  drive ! 
There's  company  in  the  parlor.  Why  will  people 
come  when  they're  not  wanted  !" 

"  That's  a  question  that  has  puzzled  older  heads 
than  yours,"  said  the  colonel,  sotto  voce.  He  did 
not  seem  any  more  pleased  than  his  nephew,  to 
find  their  little  parlor  invaded  by  visitors,  and  to 
have  to  spend  the  last  hour  of  his  young  favorite's 
holiday,  in  saying  polite  commonplaces  to  people 
he  did  not  care  at  all  for,  and  had  not  seen  for 
months,  and  did  not  wish  to  see  for  months 
to  come.    For  he   did   care  for  Louie,  it  was 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 


99 


not  hard  to  see,  and  would  rather  have  watched  her 
changeable  face,  and  listened  to  her  naive  chat, 
than  have  talked  to  a  roomful  of  the  most  intellec- 
tual ladies  and  gentlemen  our  country  has  yet  pro- 
duced. It  was  very  odd  and  inexplicable,  but  the 
wisest  people  sometimes  take  odd  and  inexplicable 
fancies,  and  it  was  with  a  look  of  much  relief  and 
pleasure,  that  he  returned  from  putting  the  ladies  in 
their  carriage,  to  the  parlor,  where  the  children  by 
the  window,  and  Mrs.  Appleton  on  the  sofa,  rested 
after  the  fatigues  of  the  morning. 

"  Uncle,  I've  rung  for  lunch,"  Master  Tom  said. 
"We  are  hungry  as  savages,  and  Louie'll  have 
barely  time  to  eat  it  and  get  back  to  the  Hall,  before 
time  for  the  train  to  start." 

"  Well,  urchin,  I  know  that." 

Lunch  was  by  no  means  the  gayest  of  the  four 
meals  they  had  taken  in  that  pleasant  little  parlor. 
Tom's  spirits,  indeed,  were  unabated,  but  Mrs. 
Appleton  had  a  headache,  and  could  not  stay  it 
half  out,  returning  to  lie  on  the  sofa,  while  the 
colonel,  though  he  talked  enough,  was  none  too 
gay,  and  Louie  could  only  feel  as  if  a  weight  of 
lead  were  lying  at  her  heart,  growing  heavier  and 
harder  every  minute.  Long  before  Tom  had 
thought  of  being  through  his  role,  however,  Col. 
Ruthven,  looking  at  his  watch,  said : 


100 


louie's  last  term. 


"I  am  afraid,  Louie,  it  is  time  for  you  to  put 
your  bonnet  on." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  said,  getting  up  from  the  table, 
with  a  very  miserable,  homesick  realization  of 
having  "  come  to  the  end  of  her  rope."  How  dif- 
ferently she  felt  as  she  tied  the  pink  bonnet  strings 
under  her  chin,  from  yesterday  afternoon  as  she 
tied  them.  They  should  have  been  ashes  of  roses 
in  color  to-day,  instead  of  roses,  to  have  matched 
her  feelings. 

"  Tom,  you  can't  leave  your  lunch  to  walk  back 
with  us,  I  suppose.  Well,  good  bye,  then.  Am  I 
to  kiss  you  ?" 

"  I  think  you  may.  You're  a  good  fellow,  Louie, 
if  you  are  a  girl.  You  may  write  tp  me,  too,  next 
week.    Uncle  Eawdon  will  give  you  the  address." 

"  Yes,  Louie  dear,  you  must  write  often,"  said 
Mrs.  Appleton,  raising  herself  from  the  sofa.  "  AYe 
shall  want  to  hear  from  you  constantly." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hurry  you,  my  dear  Louie,  but 
we  must  be  off.  One  more  kiss  and  your  god- 
mamma  must  let  you  go.  Carry,  you  will  be  ready 
by  the  time  I  return  from  the  Hall  ?  There  will  be 
no  more  than  time  to  get  to  the  depot." 

"  Yes,  Letty  has  packed  the  valises ;  I  have 
nothing  but  to  put  my  bonnet  on — good  bye,  my 
darling." 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 


101 


What  Tom's  last  six  sentences  were,  or  what  her 
own  responses  pretended  to  be,  Louie  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  have  told  ;  they  were  some  dis- 
tance on  their  way  before  she  found  voice  to  an- 
swer any  of  her  companion's  questions,  or  compo- 
sure to  think  quietly  and  reasonably  about  any- 
thing. 

Col.  Euthven  was  too  kind  to  need  any  excuse 
for  her  silence,  and  left  her  quiet  for  a  little  while, 
then  said  in  a  low  tone  as  he  took  her  hand, 
"  Why  what  a  silly  child  this  is!  You  surely  have 
forgotten  how  soon  the  summer  will  pass,  and  how 
soon  that  glorious  October  vacation  will  be  here !" 

Louie  shook  her  head  as  she  struggled  to  keep 
back  the  tears. 

"It  will  be  soon  enough  no  doubt,  sir,  to  you 
all,  but  to  me  it  will  be  ages  and  ages  "  

"Now,  Louie,  my  sensible  little  girl!  I  am 
ashamed  of  you.  I  thought  you  were  wiser.  Last 
spring  when  you  came  back  you  promised  not  to  be 
homesick ;  you  told  me  you  had  outgrown  such  fol- 
lies." 

"I  know — but  it  was  different  then.  I  didn't 
mind  things  half  so  much.  Oh,  I  wish  you'd  write 
to  papa  and  ask  him  if  I  need  stay  any  longer : 
Papa  does  everything  you  want  always — won't  you, 
dear  Col.  Kuthven?" 


102 


louie's  last  term. 


"Why,  what  should  I  tell  him,  little  one?  That 
you  had  changed  your  mind  and  concluded  not  to 
like  school  any  more  ?  That  the  McFarlane  teased 
you,  or  the  Barlow  wouldn't  let  you  laugh  ?  No 
no,  my  dear  little  girl,  I  know  your  own  good  heart 
will  tell  you  something  much  better  than  that.  It 
will  tell  you  to  be  happy  where  it  is  your  duty  to 
be,  and  to  be  patient  and  strong  under  your  little 
trials.  They  are  not  little  ?  Oh  !  yes,  petite,  they 
are.  Wait  till  you  have  tasted  real  ones ;  you  will 
see  how  slight  they  are,  what  summer  breezes  they 
are  compared  with  the  tempests  that  life  will  bring 
you.  Bear  them  bravely,  look  at  them  honestly 
and  sensibly,  and  you  will  soon  master  yourself  and 
them.  I  know  you  well  enough  to  know  that  you 
will  soon  be  happier  and  wiser.  I  trust  to  your  own 
good  sense  to  recover  you  from  your  present  dis- 
content ;  it's  very  natural,  my  dear  Louie,  very 
natural,  but  nevertheless,  very  unsafe.  Indiffer- 
ence to  present  duties,  and  repining  for  forbidden 
pleasures,  though  they  are  temptations  that  we  can 
never  quite  shake  off,  are  particularly  dangerous  to 
one  whose  character  is  just  forming,  and  at  a  time 
when  every  emotion  tells  upon  its  formation,  through 
life  perhaps.  And  you  must  promise  me,  Louie, 
that  you  will  try  to  get  the  better  of  them — promise 
me  that  you  will  try  to  be  happy  and  patient." 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 


103 


"  I'll  try  to  be  patient — I  can't  promise  to  be 
happy." 

"  If  you  are  one,  the  other  will  come,  I  am  not 
afraid — ah !  here  we  are  at  the  Hall !  I  have  so 
much  more  to  say,  I  am  sorry  our  walk  is  at  an  end. 
Forgive  the  lecture,  Louie.  You  have  had  so  much 
lecturing  I  am  afraid  it  has  spoiled  your  holiday." 

"  Ah  no  !  I  don't  mind  such  lectures — I  wish  I 
could  have  them  every  day." 

"Write  to  us  very  often,  Louie,  once  a  week  at 
the  very  longest." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Louie  sighed  as  they  ascended  the  steps ;  Col. 
Uuthven  paused  a  moment  at  the  door,  and  putting 
a  little  package  in  her  hand,  said,  "  There  are  some 
ribbons,  Louie,  for  that  white  dress  ;  think  of  this 
pleasant  holiday  and  me  when  you  wear  them,  and 
don't  disgrace  them  or  the  memory,  by  a  want  of 
smiles.  Just  fancy  I'm  looking  over  your  shoulder 
every  time  you  put  them  on  before  the  glass,  and 
am  looking  very  stern  whenever  the  face  I  see 
there  is  pale  and  dismal — when  it  is  a  face  at  all, 
in  fact,  like  the  one  I  see  now." 

"  I  can't  always  help  my  face,"  said  Louie,  strug- 
gling to  get  up  a  smile,  "  but  you're  so  kind,  I'll  try 
to  get  my  heart  better.  Don't  think,  sir,  I'm  not 
grateful." 


104: 


louie's  last  term. 


"  For  what,  my  little  friend  ?  Good  bye  !  " 

"  Good  bye,  sir,"  faltered  Louie. 
"  God  bless  you !" 

He  hurried  down  the  steps ;  Louie  watched  him 
out  of  sight,  and  then  with  a  weary  sigh,  shut  the 
door  upon  her  ended  holiday,  reality  and  work  and 
discipline  in  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  place  as 
she  entered  it. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 


louie's  latinity. 

"  A  girl,  who  has  so  many  willful  ways 
She  would  have  caused  Job's  patience  to  forsake  him ; 

Yet  is  so  rich  in  all  that's  girlhood's  praise, 

Did  Job  himself  upon  her  goodness  gaze, 
A  little  better  she  would  surely  make  him." 

Certainly,  holidays  are  unprofitable  things,  mis- 
erable, unsettling,  unsatisfactory  things ;  and  Louie 
thought,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  side  of  her  bed, 
slowly  taking  off  her  holiday  clothes,  she  almost 
wished  she  had  not  had  one.  It  was  hardly  worth 
the  pain  of  coming  back  to  every-day  life  again,  and 
finding  it  so  wretchedly  insipid  after  the  exhilarat- 
ing draught ;  it  was  almost  worse  than  no  pleasure 
at  all,  this  dead  pleasure.  What  good  did  it  do  her 
that  she  had  been,  so  happy  yesterday  ?  No  good ; 
only  made  to-day  darker  by  comparison ;  only  made 
present  duties  doubly  irksome. 

Her  toilette  took  far  more  time  than  it  had  taken 
yesterday,  though  it  was  only  a  calico  frock  to  be 
hooked  on,  and  a  linen  collar  to  be  pinned  with 

5*  105 


106 


Lottie's  last  term. 


the  little  coral  pin  Col.  Rutkven  sent  at  Christmas,  it 
was  a  long  time  in  being  accomplished.  There  was 
a  languor  and  indifference  about  her  movements  that 
contrasted  strongly  with  the  spirit  of  yesterday's 
dressing.  And  when  it  was  all  done,  the  pink  mus- 
lin, with  a  heartfelt  sigh,  restored  to  its  peg  in  the 
ward  robe,  the  little  straw  hat  shut  into  its  box,  the 
white  mantilla  folded  and  laid  on  its  shelf,  she  felt 
much  more  like  lying  down  on  the  bed  and  having 
a  good  cry,  than  going  downstairs  to  work  and  study 
among  all  those  busy,  careless  girls,  who  knew  so  lit- 
tle how  she  felt,  and  cared  so  little  for  her  feelings. 

She  was  on  her  knees  before  her  trunk,  putting 
away  the  dear  little  package  of  ribbon,  and  won- 
dering whether  she  should  ever  have  the  heart  to 
wear  it,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Alice 
Aulay  put  her  head  in  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Van  Buren  savs  come  right  down  to  your 
Latin." 

"  How  did  Mr.  Van  Buren  know  I'd  come  back, 
pray  ?"  asked  Louie,  sharply. 

"  Addy  McFarlane  told  him  you  had,  when  the 
class  went  down  to  him  ;  she  was  practising  in  the 
dining-room  and  saw  you  go  up  the  steps.  You'd 
better  hurry." 

"I  haven't  the  least  intention  of  hurrying,"  re- 
turned Louie,  slowlv  closing  and  locking  her  trunk 


louie's  latinity. 


107 


Now,  Alice,  though  in  the  main  a  well-disposed 
little  girl,  had  yet  some  love  of  mischief-making 
and  perverseness  in  her ;  the  quarrel  of  yesterday 
still  rankled  in  her  mind ;  besides,  she  had  been 
sent  upstairs  with  the  message  much  against  her 
will,  and  felt  a  grudge  against  Louie  as  the  cause ; 
so  she  very  naturally  and  very  naughtily  went  back 
to  Mr.  Van  Buren's  class,  and  said,  opening  the 
door  wide  enough  to  get  her  yellow  curls  in : 

"  I  told  Louie  to  come,  sir,  and  that  you  said  she 
must  hurry,  but  she  said  she  wouldn't  hurry,  and 
she  was  mad  because  I  came." 

Mr.  Yan  Buren,  who  was  a  nervous  little  old 
man,  started  and  looked  very  much  as  if  he  wanted 
to  box  somebody's  ears,  and  demanded  wrathfully, 
"  if  Miss  Atterbury  had  sent  him  word  she  wouldn't 
hurry  ?" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  the  child,  begin- 
ning to  get  frightened,  "  whether  she  sent  word  or 
no;  she  said  she  wouldn't,  though — she  said  she 
hadn't  any  intention  of  hurrying." 

"  That's  another  part  of  speech,"  returned  the 
professor,  cooling  down  somewhat.  "How  came 
you,  little  girl,  to  return  to  me  as  if  you  had  been  sent 
with  that  message  ?  I  don't  like  it ;  I  don't  think 
it  looks  honest.   I  think  you  deserve  a  punishment." 

Alice,  who  knew  very  little  of  professors,  and 


108 


louie's  last  term. 


stood  in  great  awe  of  them,  turned  very  pale  at 
this,  and  looked  ready  to  cry,  and  stood  twisting 
the  handle  of  the  door  very  nervously,  uncertain 
whether  to  go  or  stay — whether  Mr.  Van  Buren 
had  done  scolding  her,  or  whether  he -had  just 
begun — when  Louie,  with  a  lagging  step  and  very 
listless  air,  made  her  appearance. 

"  Well,  Miss  Atterbury  " — began  the  old  gentle- 
man, with  whom  Louie  had  always  been  rather  a 
favorite,  and  who  was  in  consequence  doubly  irri- 
tated at  her  misdemeanor — "  well,  Miss  Atter- 
bury, I  am  glad  to  find  you  have  not  altogether 
renounced  my  class.  I  shall  be  under  the  neces- 
sity of  renouncing  you  as  a  member  of  it,  if  I  ever 
receive  such  an  answer  to  my  summons  from  you 
again." 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,  sir,"  she  re- 
turned, surprised  and  angry. 

"  I  mean,  when  I  desire  you  to  hurry,  you  are 
never  to  send  me  word  again,  you  have  no  inten- 
tion of  hurrying." 

"  I  did  not  send  you  any  such  word,  sir." 

"  At  any  rate,  you  said  as  much,  whether  you 
sent  any  such  word  or  not.  I  shall  remember  it, 
young  lady,  in  my  future  estimation  of  you.  I 
shall  remember  that  you  can  be  at  once  disrespect- 
ful and  indolent." 


louie's  latinity. 


109 


Alice,  who,  during  this  parley,  had  been  shaking 
with  terror,  had  crept  for  protection  to  the  side  of 
her  friend,  Julia,  who  sat  at  the  end  of  the  bench 
nearest  to  the  door,  and,  clinging  to  her  dress, 
turned  her  face  away,  and  did  not  raise  her  guilty 
blue  eyes  from  the  floor.  Though  Julia  was  ex- 
tremely vexed  at  her  pet's  delinquency,  and  in- 
tended to  show  her  her  very  great  disapprobation 
of  it  when  they  were  by  themselves,  she  had  not 
the  heart  to  turn  against  her  now,  nor  deny  the 
shaking  little  culprit  the  asylum  she  had  sought. 

How  Louie's  dark  eyes  blazed  as  they  swept  the 
group !  Julia  half  pushed  Alice  away  as  she  met 
them;  then,  ashamed  of  the  momentary  cowardice, 
put  her  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  back. 
Louie's  lips  moved,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Mr. 
Yan  Buren  motioned  her  to  take  her  seat;  then, 
turning  to  the  little  girl,  said  : 

"You  may  go,  little  miss.  I  shall  not  punish 
you  any  further  for  your  dishonesty  of  purpose  and 
love  of  mischief;  you  are  too  young,  perhaps,  to 
understand  how  wrong  your  conduct  has  been, 
but  you  are  not  too  young  to  know  that  if  it  is  re- 
peated it  will  gain  a  punishment  for  you.  You 
have  exposed  another's  faults  at  the  expense  of 
committing  one  yourself.  Go  now.  Young  ladies, 
we  will  proceed  with  our  lesson,  too  long  delayed 


110 


lotjie's  last  term. 


already  by  Miss  Atterbury's  impertinence  and  Miss 
Aulay's  misrepresentation." 

The  general  respect  for  Louie's  Latinity,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  suffered  some  diminution  during  this  re- 
citation. She  had  not  prepared  the  lesson,  of 
course,  but  if  she  had,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether, 
in  the  tumult  of  bitter  feelings  that  filled  her  mind, 
she  could  have  commanded  any  recollection  of  it. 
Indeed,  she  failed  not  only  in  the  prescribed  lesson, 
but  in  the  review  which  Mr.  Van  Buren,  principally 
for  her  benefit,  subjected  them  to.  He  had  always 
been  proud  of  her  proficiency,  and  secretly  looked 
upon  her  as  the  highest  trump  in  his  hand,  and  his 
chagrin  and  irritation  at  her  blunders  on  this  occa- 
sion were  in  exact  ratio  to  the  hopes  he  had  enter- 
tained of  making  her  a  first-rate  scholar.  Before 
the  hour  of  recitation  was  over,  all  the  others  had 
dropped  into  the  background,  and  the  luckless 
Louie  alone  was  paraded  before  the  audience,  too 
excited  and  angry  to  do  anything  but  disgrace  her- 
self, and  making  Mr.  Yan  Buren,  of  course,  more 
excited  and  angry  at  every  fresh  blunder.  But  he 
had  determined  she  should  construe  a  passage  for 
him  that  he  was  certain  she  was  as  familiar  with  as 
he  was  himself,  and  as  much  for  her  own  credit 
with  the  class  as  for  his  own  satisfaction,  he 
peremptorily  insisted  on  its  accomplishment,  till 


LOUIE'S  LATINITY. 


Ill 


he  very  nearly  lost  his  own  temper  in  the 
trial. 

Now,  though  Louie  was  angry  with  Mr.  Yan 
Buren,  angry  with  Alice,  unspeakably  angry  with 
Julia,  she  was  not  rebellious  enough  to  have  refused 
to  do  what  was  required  of  her,  if  it  had  been  in  her 
power  to  do  it ;  but  the  truth  was,  her  head  ached 
to  a  bewildering  degree — such  a  degree  that  the 
more  she  tried  to  think  the  more  she  couldn't — the 
more  she  tried  to  grasp  a  thought  or  a  word  the 
further  it  seemed  to  slip  away  from  her,  till  it  was 
lost  in  the  bewildering  maze  of  other  lost  thoughts 
and  words ;  and  exactly  as  Mr.  Van  Buren's  vehe- 
mence and  determination  increased,  her  self-pos- 
session and  intelligence  decreased,  till  the  scene 
was  wound  up  by  a  burst  of  tears  on  her  part,  and 
a  most  unqualified  reprimand  on  the  part  of  her 
teacher. 

"  I  give  you  five  minutes,"  he  concluded,  looking 
at  his  watch,  "  to  construe  that  passage  for  me ;  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  if  you  cannot  or  will  not  do 
it,  you  may  let  Mr.  Rogers  hear  your  attempts.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  show  him  what  progress  you  have 
made." 

Of  course,  at  the  end  of  five  minutes,  Louie  was 
no  further  ahead  than  she  had  been  before,  indeed, 
only  twice  as  much  confused  and  hopeless,  and,  of 


112 


louie's  last  term. 


course,  Mr.  Van  Buren  must  be  as  good  as  his 
word,  and  send  her  to  the  Study.  There  was  a 
smothered  titter,  originating  in  Addy  McFarlane's 
end  of  the  class,  when  Louie,  with  her  Virgil  in  her 
hand,  walked  out  of  the  room  with  burning  cheeks 
and  wet  eves,  but  Mr.  Van  Buren  silenced  it 
angrily. 

"  You  are  laughing  at  a  girl,"  he  said,  "  who  till 
to-day  has  shown  herself  so  much  your  superior 
that  I  have  been  unreasonably  harsh  with  her  for 
showing  herself  for  once,  on  a  par  with  you  in  stu- 
pidity." 

The  bell  rang,  and  as  the  class  went  out,  Addy 
whispered  "who  was  that  meant  for?"  unpleasantly 
conscious  that  it  was  a  compliment  which  she  had 
a  perfect  right  to  appropriate. 

As  for  Julia,  she  had  as  little  heart  in  the  lessons 
that  followed  that,  as  poor  Louie  had  had  in  her 
Latin.  She  could  only  think  of  the  gesture  with 
which  Louie  had  hidden  her  face  from  the  stare  of 
her  companions,  and  the  burst  of  tears  that  had 
proved  the  genuineness  of  her  misery;  she  had 
never  once  looked  at  Julia  after  that  quick  glance, 
the  reproach  of  which  Julia  tried  in  vain  to  get  rid 
of — she  had  not  looked  at  any  one,  or  seemed  to 
hope  for  pity  from  any  one.  I  would  give  worlds 
to  tell  her  how  sorry  1  am,  thought  her  friend — 


louie's  latintty. 


113 


but  there  was  a  mountain  of  coldness  and  resent- 
ment and  suspicion  between  them  ;  what  could  ever 
melt  it? 

The  time  passed  slowly  till  three  o'clock,  Louie 
did  not  return  from  the  Study.  J ulia  watched  the 
door  nervously,  expecting  her  entrance  every  time 
it  opened.  Neither  when  the  bell  rang,  and  all 
assembled  in  the  schoolroom,  did  she  make  her 
appearance.  What  could  it  mean?  There  was 
trouble  coming,  and  when  Alice  ran  up  to  Julia  in 
the  entry  on  their  way  upstairs,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  dress  whispering, 

"  You  ar'nt  angry  with  me,  Julia  dear?" 

Julia  could  only  turn  away,  and  say  earnestly, 

"  Yes  Alice,  more  angry  than  I  ever  have  been 
with  you  before.  You  have  made  me  very 
unhappy.    I  can't  tell  you  how  unhappy." 

Alice  began  to  cry  ;  Julia  had  never  been  so 
unkind  before,  and  much  more  affected  probably 
by  a  fear  of  her  displeasure,  than  by  real  repen- 
tance for  her  fault,  she  showed  such  inconsolable 
sorrow  that  at  last  Julia  had  to  consent  to  forgive 
her  unconditionally  and  restore  her  to  favor. 

"  Where's  Lou  Atterbury  all  this  while,  I  won- 
der ?"  said  Adelaide,  as  they  were  preparing  for  din- 
ner. Julia  winced ;  she  dreaded  the  introduction 
of  that  topic  almost  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  her 


114 


louie's  last  term. 


own  disgrace,  and  turning  away  busied  herself  in 
arranging  Alice's  curls. 

M  Poor  Louie  !  I  wonder  indeed,"  said  Laura 
Boutwell  with  a  sigh.  "  She's  perpetually  in  trouble 
now-a-days.  Isn't  she  in  your  class,  Julia  ?  What 
happened  about  her  Latin?  I  heard  something  of 
it  from  Eva  Leonard." 

"I  don't  know — I  can't  tell  you  exactly." 

"  Oh,  I  can,"  cried  Adelaide  officiously,  and  the 
episode  of  Mr.  Yan  Buren  succeeded.  Laura  Bout- 
well  was  in  senior  B.  and  the  oldest  girl  in  the  dor- 
mitory, quite  the  queen  of  it,  in  fact,  and  quite 
worthy  of  the  position,  so  that  Julia  felt  doubly 
vexed  that  she  should  hear  the  story  of  Louie's  dis 
grace  from  so  prejudiced  a  witness  as  Adelaide. 

"It  is  too  bad,"  said  Laura,  thoughtfully.  "I 
don't  see  what  is  the  matter  with  Louie — or  yes,  I 
do  see,"  she  added  in  a  lower  tone.  "  I  wish  I 
could  help  her." 

"  I  wish  you  could,"  Julia  said  in  the  same  voice. 
"  Won't  you  try  to  get  a  chance  to  talk  with  her." 

"  Yes — I'll  try."  And  Laura's  quiet  assurance 
was  as  good  as  a  dozen  promises  from  anybody 
else. 

Exactly  as  the  dinner  bell  rang,  and  while  the 
others  were  hurrying  toward  the  door,  and  Julia 
was  twisting  hastily  the  last  of  the  ringlets  she  had 


louie's  latinity. 


115 


the  charge  of,  round  her  finger,  Louie  entered  the 
dormitory.  There  was  something  about  her  face 
that  made  a  silence  for  the  instant  among  the  chat- 
tering girls ;  they  let  her  pass  without  a  question  or 
reproach.  Julia's  heart  beat  fast:  she  would  have 
given  anything  to  have  said  a  single  word  to  her — 
in  lieu  of  doing  it,  she  grasped  Alice's  hand  and 
hurried  out  of  the  room. 

At  dinner,  Eva  Leonard,  a  chatty,  clever  south- 
erner, Louie's  nearest  neighbor,  for  once  found  her- 
self at  a  loss  for  subjects  of  pleasantry.  Though 
she  would  have  scouted  the  idea  of  being  afraid  of 
saying  anything  she  chose  to  any  one,  still  it  was 
indubitably  the  fact  that  she  dropped  the  sentence 
half  finished  in  which  she  had  begun  to  rally  Louie 
on  her  ill-luck,  and  sank  soon  into  an  unusual  state 
of  quiet  and  thoughtfulness.  The  utter  misery  of 
her  companion's  face,  hard  as  she  struggled  to  con- 
ceal it,  insensibly  shocked  and  subdued  her,  and 
though,  as  soon  as  they  were  released  from  the  table, 
she  could  run  out  among  the  others,  and  whisper 
curiously  about  it,  she  was  quiet  enough  while 
under  its  influence.  Laura  Boutwell  had  been 
watching  it  too,  and  after  dinner,  stationing  herself 
at  the  door  through  which  Louie  must  pass,  waited 
till  she  came  along. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  she  said  kindly, 


116 


louie's  last  term. 


joining  her.  u  Will  you  walk  on  the  bank  with  me 
this  afternoon  ?" 

"  I  can't,  thank  you,"  returned  Louie  in  a 
smothered  sort  of  voice,  "  I'm  not  going  out  to- 
day," and  hurried  away. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Julia,  anxiously,  as  Laura  came  into 
the  hall  alone.    Laura  shook  her  head. 

"  She  will  not  come  with  me.  I  am  afraid  she's 
very  unhappy,  and  that  there's  something  worse 
than  the  Latin  in  agitation  now." 

The  pleasant  afternoon,  and  the  attractions  of 
the  bank,  did  not  tempt  Julia  out  that  day.  She 
wandered  restlessly  about  the  schoolroom  and 
entries,  tried  first  to  read,  then  to  study,  but  failed 
in  doing  either  ;  then  went  to  her  hour  of  practis- 
ing, glad  to  have  something  to  do  about  which  she 
had  no  choice.  At  tea,  Louie  came  down  late,  after 
grace  was  said  ;  Julia  glanced  up  nervously  at  her, 
but  the  glance  did  not  add  much  to  her  composure, 
judging  from  the  untasted  meal  she  left,  and  the 
anxious  way  in  which  she  followed  her  with  her 
eyes  as  they  left  the  dining-room. 

Study  hour  had  begun ;  the  gas  was  lit,  and  the 
long  schoolroom  was  full  of  girls,  the  usual  quiet 
of  the  hour  reigning.  Every  one  studied  or  pre- 
tended to  study,  the  scratch  of  a  rapid  pen,  or  the 
cautious  and  smothered  closing  of  a  desk,  alone 


louie's  latinity. 


117 


shocked  the  silence.  Louie  was  in  her  seat ;  since 
the  hour  began,  she  had  been  sitting  with  her  face 
shaded  by  her  hand  bending  over  a  book  that  lay 
before  her,  but  Adelaide's  observant  eyes  had  not 
failed  to  note,  she  had  not  turned  a  leaf. 

The  same  detective  also  noted  that  when  the 
door  opened,  and  some  one  came  down  the  room  to 
the  desk  of  the  teacher  in  charge,  Louie  gave  a  start 
but  did  not  look  up  ;  and  when,  crossing  to  where 
she  sat,  the  teacher  touched  her  on  the  shoulder 
and  whispered  a  few  words  in  her  ear,  and  she 
bowed  an  assent,  it  was  with  a  face,  white  as  ashes 
and  a  hand  that  shook  visibly,  that  she  put  up  her 
book  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"  It's  coming  now  !"  thought  Adelaide,  as  the  door 
closed  after  her. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING. 

11  The  stubborn  knees  with  holy  trembling  smite. 
Which  bow  not  at  Thine  awful  name. 
Pour  from  Thine  altar  Thine  own  glorious  light, 

Winning  the  world-enamored  sight 
To  turn  and  see  which  way  the  healing  radiance  came." 

Lyra  Innocentium. 

When  Louie  left  Mr.  Van  Buren's  class  and 
walked  up  to  the  Study  door,  it  would  have  been 
a  difficult  matter  to  have  decided  what  feelings  were 
strongest  in  her  mind.  It  seems  a  severe  thing  to 
say  of  one  so  childish,  so  young  in  evil,  but  her 
mobile  face  expressed  two  emotions  that  no  face  can 
long  express  with  safety  to  the  soul  it  interprets — 
reckless  defiance  and  stubborn  hatred.  Defiance 
of  the  laws  that  bound  her,  the  restraints  that 
thwarted  her,  hatred  of  the  injustice  that  sent  her 
to  disgrace,  and  of  the  friendship  that  looked  coldly 
on.  But  hers  was  a  nature  that,  as  they  say,  must 
be  either  greatly  good  or  greatly  evil ;  strong  feel- 
ings, that,  according  to  the  government  they  have, 

118 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING. 


119 


are  either  a  blessing  or  a  curse ;  quick  sensibilities, 
that  lead  as  readily  to  death  as  life ;  a  will  and  a 
courage  that  are  terrible  weapons  in  the  hand  of 
the  tempter,  if  once  he  gains  possession — that  are 
noble  and  lead  to  heroism,  heavenly,  and  such  as 
win  the  martry's  crown,  if  God  and  good  angels 
have  the  guidance. 

Poor  child !  Had  they  the  guidance  now  ?  Had 
they  had,  for  many  weary  months  ?  Months  during 
which  she  had  fretted  and  rebelled  and  gone  on  sin- 
ning as  persistently  as  if  there  were  no  end  to  God's 
patience  with  those  who  break  His  laws ;  months  of 
carelessness  about  her  soul,  disregard  of  the  ordi- 
nances of  His  church,  rejection  of  Confirmation 
vows,  neglect  of  his  Dying  Command.  "Was  it 
strange  that  the  path  grew  wild  and  tangled,  that 
darkness  and  fear  were  closing  her  in  ?  It  was  a 
path  of  her  own  choosing,  with  guides  of  her  own 
choosing ;  no  wonder  she  had  gone  so  far  astray. 

The  look  with  which  Mr.  Rogers  met  her  was 
grave  and  stern ;  in  any  other  mood  she  would  have 
been  frightened  by  its  unusual  severity,  but  she 
was  too  angry  and  defiant  to  be  frightened  by  any- 
thing. She  received  her  reproof  for  the  Latin  les- 
son, and  its  consequent  punishment,  in  sullen 
silence ;  rising  as  Mr.  Rogers  concluded,  she  said, 
"  May  I  go,  sir  ?" 


120 


louie's  last  term. 


"  No,"  said  Mr.  Rogers,  in  a  tone  of  strong  dis- 
pleasure. "  No,  you  may  not  go.  You  have  paid 
far  too  many  visits  to  this  room  of  late,  without 
any  manifest  improvement  to  yourself,  or  satisfac- 
tion to  me.  I  shall  try  to  make  this  one  of  a 
nature  that  will  impress  itself  on  your  volatile  mind, 
if  such  impression  is  possible  ;  I  shall  hope  to  make 
it  the  last.  Louisa,  when  yesterday  morning,  you 
asked  permission  to  write  to  Miss  Barlow  instead  of 
speaking  to  her,  you  led  me  to  suppose  it  was 
because  you  wished  to  be  respectful  and  submissive, 
but  doubted  your  own  resolution  if  obliged  to  ask 
pardon  in  person.  I  was  willing  to  give  you  every 
help  in  my  power,  and  granted  your  rather  singu- 
lar request.  I  now  see  how  much  reliance  is  to  be 
placed  on  your  representations ;  I  have  discovered 
the  motive  that  prompted  you  to  avoid  an  inter- 
view with  Miss  Barlow.  It  would  have  been  incon- 
venient to  have  explained  to  her  the  cause  of  your 
long  tarry  in  the  school-room ;  she  might  have 
asked  what  book  it  was  you  found  so  interesting." 

" Sir!"  said  Louie,  startled  and  uncertain.  "I 
do  not  understand." 

"  You  do  not  ?  I  am  sorry ;  perhaps  I  can  help 
you.  To  begin  at  the  root  of  the  matter,  I  will  ask 
you  what  the  name  of  the  book  was  which  you 
went  into  the  school-room  to  read,  and  if  you 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING. 


121 


answer  me  honestly,  we  shall  soon  see  our  way 
through  it." 

The  color  in  her  cheeks  paled  a  little,  and  her 
eyes  fell  beneath  Mr.  Rogers'  stern  scrutiny ;  but 
the  quivering  of  her  mouth,  and  the  uncertain 
softening  of  her  eyes  were  all  gone,  when,  at  that 
moment,  a  low  tap  at  the  door  made  her  look  up, 
and  when  Miss  Barlow's  small  trim  figure  appeared 
as  it  opened.  She  begged  pardon  for  intruding, 
but  Mr.  Rogers  requested  her  to  stay  and  gave  her 
a  chair. 

"I  will  repeat,"  he  said,  "  a  question  I  had  just 
put  to  Louisa  as  you  entered.  What  was  the  book 
you  were  reading  the  other  morning  when  you  were 
late  at  Chapel  ?" 

Louie's  lips  moved,  she  tried  to  speak,  but  only 
grew  very  pale  and  turned  away. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  a  useless  question,"  said 
Miss  Barlow,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Some  minds  seem 
incapable  of  straightforwardness." 

The  color  flashed  back  into  the  girl's  face  and 
the  fire  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that.  I  never  told 
you  a  lie  in  my  life,  you  know  I  never  did,  you 
cannot  say  I  ever  did.  You  have  tried  your 
best  to  frighten  me  into  it,  you  have  never  let  me 
alone  since  I  came  into  your  dormitory,  and  it's 

6 


122 


louie's  last  teem. 


just  because  I  won't  lie  to  you  or  bend  to  you  or  get 
out  of  your  way,  that  you  hate  me  so  and  tantalize 
me  so.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  to  me — I  don't 
care  what  happens  to  me — I  won't  endure  it  any 
longer — I  won't  submit  to  your  authority — you 
make  me  ten  times  worse  every  time  I  see  you — 
you  make  me  so  ugly  I  don't  know  myself.  There 
is  no  use  trying  to  make  me  mind  you.  You  need 
not  ask  me  any  questions,  for  I  will  not  answer 
them  ;  you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  scold- 
ing me  for  I  shall  not  care.  You  may  tell  the 
Bishop — you  may  expel  me  from  the  school — it 
does  not  matter  to  me  in  the  very  least  what 
becomes  of  me." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  these  words,  you  may 
well  suppose  Louie's  heart  almost  stopped  beating. 
While  she  had  been  speaking,  the  intensity  of  her 
excitement  and  anger  had  made  her  oblivious  of 
every  other  consideration ;  but  now,  in  the  startling 
silence  that  ensued,  there  came  a  rush  of  fear, 
shame,  terror,  that  made  her  turn  faint  and  giddy  ; 
the  room  swam  before  her ;  the  words  she  had  said, 
the  words  Mr.  Rogers  began  to  say,  all  tangled  and 
twisted  themselves  together,  and  the  bewildering 
throbbing  of  her  head  blotted  and  blurred  them 
till  they  were  all  one  mass  of  confusion.  Mr. 
Rogers  was   speaking — oh  !   how  severe! y — Miss 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  123 

Barlow's  low  but  sharp  voice  mingled  with  it ;  what 
were  they  talking  about — what  did  it  all  mean — 
they  seemed  to  think  she  understood  it  all,  and  to 
threaten  vaguely,  punishment  for  what  was  worse 
than  vague  to  her.  There  was  something  about  a 
book,  and  Mr.  Rogers  took  one  from  his  desk,  and 
asked  her  if  she  had  ever  seen  it  before  ? 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  faltered,  as  half  blind  with 
excitement  she  bent  down  to  look  at  it — "  not  that 
I  remember — no — I  don't  think  I  ever  have." 

A  low  exclamation  of  horror  fell  from  Miss 
Barlow's  lips,  and  Mr.  Rogers  in  a  stern  voice  bade 
her  beware ;  such  cowardly  falsehoods  could  avail 
her  nothing — a  simple  avowal  of  her  fault  was  her 
only  chance. 

"  If  I  only  knew  what  they  meant !"  thought  the 
wretched  child,  pressing  her  hand  involuntarily  to 
her  aching  temple. 

But  it  soon  became  evident  what  they  meant, 
even  to  her  bewildered  brain.  They  meant  that,  in 
addition  to  her  other  wrong  doings,  she  was  ac- 
cused of  breaking  the  rule  that  forbade  novel  read- 
ing, of  being,  in  fact,  the  prime  cause  of  all  the 
trouble  that  had  lately  existed  on  account  of  this 
same  fault  among  the  other  girls,  of  circulating 
improper  books  among  them,  of  reading  such  books 
as  were  forbidden  at  forbidden  hours,  and  of  having 


.124 


lottie's  last  term. 


been  found,  when  sent  to  her  room  for  a  punish- 
ment, occupied  with  the  novel  now  in  Mr.  Rogers' 
hands.  When  at  last  the  whole  drift  of  this  became 
clear  to  her,  she  exclaimed  indignantly  and  vehe- 
mently : 

"  It  is  not  so — I  did  not  read  that  book — I  don't 
know  anything  about  it — I  never  saw  "  

"  Stop  !"  Mr.  Rogers  exclaimed,  justly  shocked  at 
what  seemed  to  him  the  amazing  hardihood  of  her 
falsehood.  "  I  cannot  listen  to  such  protestations  ; 
they  make  me  shudder.  Do  not  add  any  more  sins 
to  those  you  are  already  involved  in." 

"  Let  me  ask  one  question,"  said  Miss  Barlow, 
eagerly.  "  Can  you  deny  that  >that  is  the  book  you 
were  reading  before  Chapel,  on  Tuesday  morning?" 

"  Miss  Barlow,  I  do  not  wish  this  conversation 
prolonged  "  

"  Yes,"  cried  Louie,  "  I  do  deny  it — Mr.  Rogers 
I  did  not  read  that  book  then,  or  any  other  time — I 
was  reading  "  

"  What  ?" 

A  strange  faltering  and  hesitancy  came  into  her 
inanner,  as  she  attempted  an  answer  and  failed  in  it. 

"  Go  and  get  me  the  book  you  were  reading 
then,"  he  said;  and  she  started  forward  and  hur- 
ried eagerly  out  of  the  room. 

Several  minutes  elapsed  without  her  return;  so 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING. 


125 


many,  indeed,  that  Mr.  Rogers,  to  whose  kind  heart 
this  scene  was  a  severe  trial,  walked  nervously  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  thought  them  intermina- 
bly long;  while  Miss  Barlow,  who  had  a  vague 
apprehension  that  Louie  would  attempt  an  escape, 
and  might  even  now  be  flying  down  town,  bonnet- 
less  and  wild,  to  catch  the  train  just  due  at  the 
depot,  suggested  at  last,  had  she  not  better  go  and 
look  for  her  ? 

"No!"  said  Mr.  Rogers,  very  simply  and  em- 
phatically. 

At  length,  however,  the  door  opened;  Mr. 
Rogers  stood  still,  and  Miss  Barlow  glanced  up 
quickly  as  Louie  entered.  But  the  flushed  and 
angry  face  was  altered  altogether  now,  they  saw,  as 
they  regarded  it  inquiringly.  A  look  of  stolid 
determination  had  settled  on  it,  a  white  cold  look  of 
hopelessness  and  wretchedness.  She  stood  still  for 
a  moment,  after  she  had  shut  the  door,  then  as  if  it 
cost  her  a  great  effort,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  said, 
in  a  husky,  hurried  voice : 

"  I  know  perfectly  well  what  you  will  think — I 
cannot  help  it — the  book  is  gone — I  cannot  find  it." 

"  Ah !"  escaped  Miss  Barlow's  lips,  so  low,  and 
yet  so  hateful. 

"  Very  well ;  if  you  know  what  I  think,  you  will 
not  need  the  judgment  of  your  conduct  that  it 


126 


louie's  last  term. 


would  pain  me  extremely  to  give  you.  I  have  done 
with  you  for  the  present.  Take  your  books  and  go 
into  one  of  the  recitation  rooms.  Miss  Emily's  is 
unoccupied  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  you  may  go 
there,  and  stay  by  yourself,  with  the  exception  of 
meal-time  and  study  hour.  You  may  prepare  your- 
self to  meet  the  Bishop  this  evening.  That  is  all. 
You  may  go." 

The  heavy  hours  of  solitude  that  succeeded, 
seemed  ages  of  misery  to  Louie.  "When  she  first 
shut  herself  into  the  room  she  had  been  condemned 
to,  she  had  been  almost  beside  herself  with  passion, 
she  had  walked  the  floor  and  clenched  her  hands, 
till  a  violent  burst  of  crying  had  relieved  and  sub- 
dued her  ;  thus  tired  out  with  her  emotions,  she  had 
sunk  into  a  sort  of  dull  despair,  nothing  like  repent- 
ance in  her  heart,  only  a  rankling  sense  of  injustice 
and  a  bitter  resentment.  Her  head  ached  madly  ; 
if  she  only  had  some  cold  water  to  bathe  her  fore- 
head with,  a  bandage  to  tie  round  her  bursting 
temples  ;  but  to  face  all  those  girls  in  going  upstairs 
for  either,  was  worse  than  the  worst  headache 
that  ever  ached  ;  and  turning  her  back  to  the  cruel 
sunlight  that  streamed  in  at  the  window,  she  laid 
her  head  on  her  folded  arms,  and  never  moved  till 
startled  by  the  great  bell  for  dinner. 

At  the  sound,  she  started  up,  and  walking  impa- 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  127 

tiently  and  agitatedly  up  and  down  the  room, 
thought,  "  It  will  kill  me  to  face  them  all.  I  cannot 
— will  not  go." 

But  then  reason  told  her,  it  would  be  far  more 
noticeable  if  she  did  not  go :  she  would  be  sent  for 
— brought  down  after  all  the  rest  were  seated — 
any  way,  every  one  would  soon  know  about 
it — they  would  soon  know  she  was  to  be  expelled — 
this  time  to-morrow,  perhaps,  it  would  be  publicly 
given  out  before  them  all,  she  might  as  well  get 
used  to  it.  She  would  go  down — she  hated  them 
all — hated  them — what  difference  did  it  make 
to  her  what  they  thought  ?  Did  her  face  look  so 
horribly,  she  wondered,  would  they  guess  how  she 
felt?  No,  they  shouldn't — she  would  be  as  uncon- 
cerned as  any  one — she  was  as  unconcerned  as  any 
one,  she  repeated  to  herself,  smoothing  down  her 
hair  and  hurrying  up  the  stairs,  and  through  the 
now  empty  halls. 

But  ah !  poor  child,  or  poor  man,  or  poor  woman, 
who  has  learned  to  dread  meeting  any  eyes,  cold  or 
kind,  of  friend  or  foe,  who  shrinks  with  shame  and 
pain  from  even  a  careless  glance,  who  knows  hy  heart 
the  terrible  lesson  of  disgrace.  Perhaps  there  are 
harder  things  to  bear,  but  this  is  very  cruel.  Sins  that 
are  only  against  Heaven  and  in  Its  sight,  can  be 
repented  of  and  atoned  for  without  that  indeseriba- 


128 


lotjie's  last  term. 


ble  humiliation,  that  bitter  sickening  shame  that 
is  added  when  our  fellows  have  been  witnesses. 
God  is  so  much  gentler  than  men,  "we  feel  it  when 
we  sorrow  most,"  when  we  are  lowest  in  His  sight 
and  in  our  own,  and  when  we  have  done  most  to 
provoke  Him  to  deny  us:  we  would  rather  fall  into 
His  hands  who  can  destroy  both  soul  and  body  in 
hell,  than  into  the  hands  of  men  as  weak  as  we  and 
only  less  contemptible. 

No  one  can  wonder  at  the  double  misery  of  the 
hour  Louie  spent  under  the  eye  of  her  schoolmates, 
nor  at  the  eagerness  with  which  she  hurried  out  of 
their  sight  into  solitude  again,  and  began  the  long 
afternoon  of  that  long  day.  It  seemed  a  lifetime 
since  morning.  Tom  and  Col.  Ruthven  and  her  god- 
mother seemed  to  have  been  separated  from  her  by 
months  instead  of  hours.  Everything  was  so  strange 
and  out  of  joint — so  dreamy,  and  yet  so  staring  and 
unalterable  ;  there  was  but  one  tangible  reality,  her 
wretched,  aching  head — such  pain  as  she  never 
felt  before,  one  moment  a  hot  flash  that  seemed  to 
go  through  every  vein,  and  the  next,  a  sick,  faint 
feeling  that  made  her  lean  down  her  head  on  the 
desk  and  wonder  whether  she  would  ever  raise  it  up 
again.  She  tried  not  to  think  of  what  she  had  done, 
nor  of  what  was  coming  ;  the  hateful  minutes  that 
were  £0  slow  in  going  were  yet  too  fast  when  she 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  129 

thought  of  what  this  evening  had  in  store  for  her. 
The  half  of  what  she  had  said  to  Miss  Barlow  was 
enough  to  make  her  dismissal  from  the  school  inevit- 
able, she  was  sure.  What  had  she  said  to  her  ? 
She  could  not  recall  it  distinctly — the  very  indis- 
tinctness of  the  recollection  made  it  alarming — per- 
haps she  had  been  even  more  unpardonable  than 
she  remembered — they  had  looked,  indeed,  struck 
dumb  with  astonishment.  Even  Miss  Barlow  had 
never  expected  anything  so  bad  of  her. 

Expelled  from  the  school !  It  is  not  easy  to  con- 
vey the  shame  and  terror  -that  the  words  inspired 
her  with.  Never  in  her  time  had  such  a  thing  hap- 
pened to  any  one,  but  about  two  years  before,  a 
girl  had  been  expelled  for  some  grave  fault ;  and 
the  legend  of  her  disgrace  was  whispered  over  to 
this  day — told  to  every  new-comer,  and  kept  fresh 
in  the  minds  of  all.  The  mantle  of  contempt  had 
fallen  on  her  little  sister,  a  pale,  shy  child,  who  had 
remained  after  her.  She  was  avoided  by  her  com- 
panions instinctively,  had  no  chum  whatever,  and 
lived  in  a  strange  sort  of  isolation  among  them  all. 
If  she  had  been  a  merry,  careless  child,  no  doubt, 
she  wrould  have  made  her  way  in  the  school,  and 
have  cleared  herself  of  the  disgrace  that  now  hung 
around  her;  but  she  was  sensitive  and  reserved,  and 
morbidly  alive  to  the  shame  of  her  sister's  punish- 

6* 


130 


louie's  list  teem. 


nient,  that  had  happened  when  she  was  too  young 
to  estimate  it  rightly,  and  that  was  unjustly  punish- 
ing her  far  more  severely  than  it  had  ever  done  the 
other ;  yet  doing  her  more  good,  perhaps ;  for 
though  little  Frances  Chenilworth  was  growing  up 
under  its  shadow  a  timid,  humble,  lonely  child,  the 
very  shadow,  no  doubt,  was  keeping  down  the 
faults  for  which  her  sister  suffered,  and  which 
might  have  marred  her  character  as  well,  if  the  sun- 
shine of  praise  and  prosperity  had  fostered  them. 

Louie,  proud  and  sensitive  herself,  had  often 
looked  with  wonder  and  pity  at  the  neglected  little 
girl,  not,  of  course,  thinking  of  noticing  or  associat- 
ing with  her,  for  she  gave  no  one  a  chance  to  think 
of  that;  but  Louie  pondered:  "If  I  were  in  her 
place,  I  know  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  couldn't  live 
without  being  liked  or  noticed  by  somebody.  It 
would  just  kill  me  to  be  so  neglected  and  despised." 

But  it  did  not  kill  Frances ;  she  went  on  in  her 
quiet,  sad  way,  too  inoffensive  to  be  more  than 
neglected,  too  humble  to  be  disliked,  doing  her 
duty  very  simply,  saying  her  prayers  very  faith- 
fully, and  living  perhaps  more  entirely  in  the  fear 
and  favor  of  God  than  any  girl  in  the  great  school, 
little  as  they  guessed  it. 

Louie  did  not  see  or  think  of  her  very  often — or, 
rather,  if  she  saw  her  often,  she  thought  of  her  very 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  131 

seldom ;  her  colorless,  quiet  face  and  slight  figure 
forever  stooping  over  her  books,  were  the  sort  of 
things  that  do  not  make  much  mark  upon  one's 
mind ;  they  were  too  unobtrusive  and  too  habitual 
to  be  striking.  But  somehow,  to-day,  since  Louie 
had  been  alone  down  in  Miss  Emily's  room,  she  had 
thought  a  great  many  times  of  Frances ;  more  than 
of  any  other  of  her  schoolmates.  Perhaps  she  had 
begun  to  feel  what  that  burden  might  be  that  she  had 
borne  so  long,  and  possibly  she  wondered  more  that 
she  could  have  been  so  patient.  At  any  rate,  the 
thought  of  her  gave  her  a  shadow  of  comfort ;  there 
was  one  among  her  companions  whose  sympathy 
she  had  a  right  to — who  would  not  scorn  her — and 
yet  it  was  bitter  to  feel  she  had  come  to  that ! 
Come  to  be  glad  of  the  kindness  of  the  most  in- 
significant girl  in  school — almost  glad  of  her  pity. 

Louie  groaned  aloud  as  she  hid  her  face  on  the 
desk.  Oh !  if  she  could  only  hide  it  forever  from 
every  one's  sight!  It  was  a  shame  to  meet  any 
eyes  now,  even  Iter  mother's ;  that  was  perhaps 
the  worst  thought  of  all.  She  hated  and  de- 
spised herself  so — she  felt  such  a  tempest  of  rage 
and  resentment  in  her  heart — she  knew  herself  to 
be  so  disgraced  and  marked — that  she  dared  not 
think  of  her  mother's  sweet,  sad  eyes,  and  put  the 
thought  out  of  her  mind  whenever  it  recurred  to  her. 


132 


louie's  last  term. 


She  did  not  hear  the  door  open,  sitting  stone  still 
with  her  head  bowed  down  on  her  arms  on  the 
desk;  and  Frances  Chenilworth,  entering  noise- 
lessly, did  not  see  her  till  she  was  half-way  into  the 
room.  "When  she  did  perceive  her,  she  gave  a  start 
and  turned  back  ;  but  as  she  reached  the  door,  she 
glanced  toward  her  again,  and  something  in  her  atti- 
tude struck  her  with  surprise  and  pity.  She  with- 
drew her  hand  from  the  knob  of  the  door  and  timidly 
took  a  step  back  into  the  room.  Her  face  expressed 
a  great  many  shifting  feelings,  wonder  at  the 
•unusual  sight  of  Louie  crying,  pity  for  her,  fear  of 
rebuff,  longing  to  give  comfort,  habitual  shyness 
and  reserve  struggling  with  an  affectionate  and 
tender  impulse.  It  was  several  minutes  before, 
standing  beside  her,  she  found  courage  to  lay  her 
hand  lightly  on  her  arm,  and  whisper : 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  you?" 

Louie  gave  a  violent  start  and  raised  her  head ; 
but,  somehow,  it  did  not  seem  to  surprise  her 
exactly  to  see  that  it  was  Frances  standing  by  her ; 
it  was  only  the  continuation  of  her  long  re  very ;  she 
only  shook  her  head,  and  half-turned  it  away  with- 
out saying  anything.  But  Frances  had  not  ceased 
to  be  sorry  for  her  since  she  had  seen  her  face,  and 
not  taking  her  silence  for  a  rebuff,  she  went  on 
timidly  after  a  minute  : 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING. 


133 


"  I  hope  nobody  lias  been  unkind  to  you ;  but 
you  mustn't  mind  if  they  have.  Perhaps  they 
didn't  mean  it;  very  often  people  don't,  when  it 
seems  very  hard;  they  only  don't  think  how  it 
would  feel  themselves — they  never  put  themselves 
in  anybody  else's  place." 

aAh!"  thought  Louie,  "how  well  you  know  all 
that !"  But  aloud  she  said :  "Yes  !  everybody  has 
been  unkind  to  me — everybody — and  I  don't  care 
that,  Frances.    I  don't  care  for  anybody." 

Frances  looked  troubled. 

u  pm  gia(j  ^  y0U  don't  care  in  the  right  sort  of  a 
way,  but "  

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  in  the  way  people  don't  care 
when  they  pull  the  trigger  of  a  pistol  within  two 
inches  of  their  brains — that's  the  way  I  don't  care. 
I'm  not  your  way;  I'm  not  meek;  I  don't  want 
you  to  suppose  I  am.  You'd  be  afraid  of  me  if  you 
knew  how  I  felt;  I'm  sometimes  half  afraid  of 
myself." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so,"  said  Frances,  un- 
easily. "I  know  you're  not  in  earnest.,  but  it 
sounds  dreadfully.  You  won't  like  to  remember  it 
in  Chapel  this  evening." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  be  allowed  to  go  into 

CD 

Chapel.  1  am  sentenced  to  be  kept  by  myself, 
Frances.    I  am  too  bad  to  go  near  the  girls.  Mr. 


134 


louie's  last  term. 


Rogers,  maybe,  won't  let  me  go  into  Chapel ;  per- 
haps he'd  scold  you  for  talking  to  me ;  you'd  bet- 
ter take  care." 

"  I  think  not.    I  don't  feel  afraid." 

" Did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"  No." 

"What  did  you  come  down  here  for?  To 
study  ?" 

"  No,"  returned  Frances,  while  a  very  faint  glow 
of  red  came  over  her  face,  "  I've  studied  all  my 
lessons  for  to-morrow." 

"Well?" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  think — I — came  down 
here  to  read  by  myself  for  a  little  while." 

"  Well,  need  you  go  because  I  am  here  ?  I  don't 
think  it  makes  any  difference  ;  I  wish  you'd  stay. 
I  have  a  headache  and  it's  so  lonesome  down  here 
alone.  Head  aloud  to  me  in  whatever  book  you've 
got." 

"You  might  not  like  my  book — I'm  afraid  it 
wouldn't  interest  you — though  I'd  like  very  much 
to  stay." 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  make  the  least  matter  what  it 
is,"  said  Louie,  wearily,  laying  her  head  down  on 
the  desk  again.  "  Just  read,  I  like  reading 
aloud." 

The  fact  was,  she  did  not  want  to  think,  and 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  135 


dreaded  to  be  left  alone  now  that  she  had  felt  the 
soothing  quiet  of  Frances'  sweet  voice  and  gentle 
sympathy.  No  other  companion  would  have  suited 
her  as  this  one  did.  She  would  have  resented  pity 
from  almost  any  one  else,  and  would  have  rejected 
any  one  else's  sympathy ;  but  Frances  knew  all 
about  it  so  well,  and  was  so  humble  and  so  dif- 
ferent from  all  the  others. 

She  told  the  truth  when  she  said  she  did  not  care 
what  she  read  about ;  she  did  not  look  at  the  book 
Frances  had  in  her  hand,  nor  listen  to  anything 
but  the  low  sweet  voice  in  which  she  read.  She 
hardly  noticed  that  it  trembled  at  first,  but  that  in 
a  little  while  it  steadied  itself  and  grew  firm  and 
earnest;  she  only  knew  that  there  was  in  it  some 
answer  to  the  hungry  craving  she  felt  for  sympa- 
thy, something  that  lulled  the  storm  in  her  heart. 
It  was  not  the  words  that  did  her  any  good — she 
did  not  hear  them ;  it  was  only  the  quieting  tones 
of  the  reader;  even  the  headache  abated  itself 
under  their  influence ;  she  drew  her  handkerchief 
across  her  eyes  and  apathetically  and  listlessly  sat 
as  Frances  had  found  her. 

But  at  last,  something  in  the  words  seemed  to 
arouse  her  to  a  sense  that  they  were  words  con- 
veying ideas,  and  not  merely  sounds ;  she  moved  a 
little,  then   raised  her  head  and  fixed  her  eyes 


136 


louie's  last  term. 


uneasily  on  Frances,  who,  now  engrossed  with,  the 
subject,  sat  stooping  over  the  book  in  her  usual 
fashion,  forgetful  almost  that  she  had  an  auditor. 
There  was  a  reverent  tone  in  her  voice  that  showed 
she  had  to  do  with  sacred  subjects,  and  a  simplicity 
and  earnestness  about  her  that  showed  they  were 
the  subjects  nearest  her  heart.  The  words  that  first 
struck  Louie's  ear  were  these : 

"Therefore  you  must  take  especial  care,  lest  there 
be  any  person  with  whom  you  are  not  at  peace ; 
whom  you  cannot  forgive  and  pray  for,  and  do  him 
all  the  good  that  can  in  reason  be  expected  from 
you :  That  you  be  disposed  to  make  satisfaction  to 
any  person  that  has  been  injured  by  you,  or  who 
may  have  taken  just  offence  at  your  words  or 
actions,  this  being  a  duty  which  Jesus  Christ 
Himself  hath  commanded.  And  that  you  be  ready 
to  forgive  every  person  who  may  have  injured  you 
as  you  expect  forgiveness  of  God,  remembering  the 
dreadful  sentence — 'Thou  wicked  servant,  I  for- 
gave thee  all  thy  debt ;  shouldst  not  thou  have  had 
compassion  on  thy  fellow-servant,  even  as  I  had 
pity  on  thee?'  And  the  Lord  was  wroth,  and 
delivered  him  to  the  tormenters. 

"  And  believe  it  for  a  certain  truth,  that  a  chari- 
table and  forgiving  temper  is  not  near  so  beneficial 
to  anybody  as  to  him  that  hath  it,  it  being  more 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  137 


blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,  and  to  forgive  than 
to  insist  upon  satisfaction  for  injuries  and  wrongs 
done  to  us." 

"  Frances,"  said  Louie,  catching  her  breath  and 
speaking  fast,  "  what  did  you  pick  that  out  to  read 
to  me  to-day  for  %    You  might  have  known  "  

"  I  didn't  pick  it  out,"  she  returned,  looking  up 
startled  from  her  book.  "I  didn't  know  you  were 
listening,  it  was  what  came  in  my  regular  reading 
for  to-day.  I  hope  you  are  not  angry,  for  I  didn't 
mean  it,  I  was  not  thinking  about  you,  I  was  only 
thinking  about  myself  when  1  came  to  that." 

"  Do  you  read  every  day  in  that  book?" 

"  Tes,  every  day  the  week  before  Communion." 

"  I  had  forgotten — you  were  confirmed  at  Easter 
with  Julia  and  the  others.  I  wonder — Frances,  tell 
me  sincerely,  how  do  you  ever  dare  to  go  ?" 

"  I  should  not  dare  to  stay  away." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

Frances  bent  her  head  and  held  the  book  very 
tight  in  her  clasped  hands  ;  perhaps  it  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  been  required  to  explain  her 
faith  and  give  a  reason  for  it — it  was  easier  to  live 
by,  than  to  tell  of — it  was  as  clear  and  beautiful  as 
the  blue  sky  itself,  and  yet  no  child  standing  under 
the  vast  and  steadfast  vault  of  heaven  could  have 
hesitated  more,  or  wanted  words  more  utterly  to 


138 


louie's  last  teem. 


explain  what  it  was  she  saw  and  lived  under  and 
looked  at  hourly  and  depended  upon  for  the  plea- 
sure of  her  life. 

"  What  do  you  mean — why  wouldn't  you  dare  to 
stay  away  ?    Suppose  you  were  not  fit  ?" 

u  Nobody  is  fit  really." 

"  Not  perfect,  Frances,  but  better  than  other  peo- 
ple, different  from  other  people.  I  don't  under- 
stand how  any  one  can  go  till  she  is  really  good, 
and  knows  she  can  keep  so." 

"  Nobody  can  know  that ;  and  if  a  person  waited 
when  once  she  had  been  told,  that  would  be  a  sin 
in  itself,  a  dreadful  sin." 

"  How  can  it  be  a  sin,  if  you  know  you  are  not 
fit?" 

"  It  must  be  a  sin,"  said  Frances,  speaking 
quickly,  u  to  live  in  neglect  of  any  command  that 
God  has  taken  the  trouble  to  give  us,  and  to  dis- 
obey His  last  request ;  to  say  we  are  not  ready  to 
receive  Him  when  He  is  ready  to  come  ;  to  acknow- 
ledge by  doing  it  that  we  have  no  life  in  us  and  are 
not  concerned  that  we  have  not ;  to  refuse  to  do 
the  one  thing  He  asked  of  us  that  last  night  before 
the  awful  Friday.  Oh,  Louie !  don't  you  see  how 
dreadful  it  is  ?  Don't  it  make  you  tremble  to  see 
the  people  go  out  of  church  ?" 

"  It's  all  dreadful,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder. 


THE  SKY   IS  RED  AND  LOWERING. 


139 


"  It's  dreadful  to  disobey — but  it's  ten  times  worse 
to  be  unworthy  and  to  live  as  some  people  do,  just 
as  bad  as  they  were  before,  not  a  bit  as  if  they 
were  Christians,  not  a  bit  as  if  there  were  any 
difference  between  them  and  the  world." 

"  We  must  not  think  about  that,  we  don't  know 
their  hearts." 

"But,  Frances,"  said  Louie,  abruptly,  as  she 
paused,  "  I  wish  you'd  tell  me — don't  that  chapter  in 
Corinthians  frighten  you  ?  It  keeps  running  in  my 
head  all  the  time,  and  when  I  see  the  others  going 
to  the  altar,  I  can't  think  of  anything  else — I  can't 
help  thinking  how  they  dare.  That  awful,  awful 
verse  !    It  haunts  me  so  !" 

"  Do  you  mean — '  He  that  eateth  and  drinketh 
unworthily  V  " 

"Yes." 

"  It  always  frightened  me,  too,  till  that  sermon 
Mr.  Rogers  preached  in  Chapel,  one  stormy  Sunday, 
when  we  couldn't  go  to  church — it  was  two  months 
ago.    Don't  you  remember  it  ?" 

"  It  must  have  been  before  I  came  back.  I  don't 
recollect  anything  about  it.    "What  did  he  say  ?" 

"He  said — I  can't  remember  exactly  what  he 
said — only  it  made  it  very  different.  I  believe  he 
said  that  it  was  a  letter  written  to  the  Corinthians, 
who  were  in  such  different  circumstances  from  us, 


140 


louie's  last  term. 


that  we  could  not  take  it  all  to  ourselves.  They 
had  been  growing  very  loose  and  irreverent  in  their 
celebration  of  the  Lord's  Supper,  preceding  it  by 
their  '  Agapse,'  or  feasts  of  charity,  at  which  the  rich 
were  careless  and  intemperate,  and  the  poor  were 
neglected.  And  so  St.  Paul  wrote  to  warn  them  of 
their  danger  and  set  them  right  about  it's  being  a 
spiritual  feast,  and  one  that  should  be  celebrated 
with  reverence  and  great  solemnity,  and  in  no  way 
profaned  or  partaken  of  thoughtlessly.  And  it  is 
in  this  sense,  he  said,  we  were  to  take  it ;  and  that 
word,  too,  that  sounds  so  awful,  '  damnation,' 
meant  only  'judgment'  or  'condemnation,'  and 
was  often  translated  so  in  other  parts  of  the  Bible, 
indeed,  in  another  part  of  this  very  chapter.  So 
you  can  very  well  see  how  the  Corinthians  might 
indeed  bring  a  judgment  upon  themselves  by  the 
way  they  had  got  in  of  slighting  the  Holy  Commu- 
nion, and  treating  it  as  any  other  feast ;  and  I'm 
sure  it's  a  comfort  to  know  it  is  not  all  meant  for 
us.  Though,  oh,  there's  enough  required  of  us  to 
make  us  fearful?  but  how  can  we  expect  to  get 
help  if  we  disobey.  He  has  told  us  to  do  it,  and  we 
must  do  it,  or  be  living  in  open  rebellion  against 
Him.  He  said — you  know  what  it  was — '  he  that 
cometh  to  Me ' — and  if  we  come,  no  matter  how 
miserable    and  young  and   ignorant,  and  even 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  141 

wicked,  we  are,  we  shall  not — cannot  be  cast  out — 
but  helped  and  comforted  and  made  better,  led 
from  £  strength  to  strength,'  slowly  perhaps, 
and  sadly,  but  surely,  for  there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  His  promise.  If  we  only  believe  and  try — 
if  we  only  say,  '  I  do  believe  it  is  the  only  thing 
that  will  help  me,  I  will  do  as  God  has  told  me  to 
do,  though  I  don't  see  the  way  to  make  myself  fit — 
I  will  just  mind  Him  and  do  the  best  I  can,  and 
hope  and  trust  He  will  accept  my  good  and  sincere 
wish  to  do  as  I  believe  He  wishes.'  That  is  all  He 
requires  of  us  for  a  beginning — Oh,  dear  Louie,  if 
I  could  only  tell  you — if  I  could  only  make  you 
understand  what  a  sure  help  it  is  ;  how  much  better 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  It  may  not  come 
right  away,  it  may  be  ever  so  long  before  the 
doubts  and  fears  go  away,  but  you  know  there  can't 
be  any  uncertainty  about  the  promise ;  in  time,  it 
must  come  good  to  you — only,  only  try." 

"  Oh  !"  murmured  Louie,  "you  don't  know  half 
how  bad  I  am,  how  angry,  and  envious  and  unfor- 
giving— you  wouldn't  tell  me  to  think  about  Com- 
munion, if  you  knew  my  heart." 

"  It  will  never  be  any  better  till  you  do.  God 
won't  hear  your  prayer  till  you  consent  to  do  that 
one  thing  He  requires  of  you.  No  matter  how  hard 
you  plead,  if  you  don't  consent  to  obey.  He  won't 


142 


louie's  last  term. 


have  anything  to  do  with  you.  Don't  fancy  you  can 
get  at  holiness  your  own  way — you  can't.  You 
must  take  His  way,  whether  it  seems  wise  to  you  or 
not ;  you  must  just  mind  Him,  and  then  He  will 
not  fail  to  help  and  govern  you,  and  bring  you  up 
in  His  steadfast  fear  and  love.  And  forgive  you, 
oh !  with  all  His  heart,  and  be  so  merciful !  How 
can  you — how  can  anybody  refuse  such  kindness, 
and  choose  such  awful,  awful  sin  and  danger?" 

"  Don't  say  such  things,  you  frighten  me,"  mur- 
mured Louie. 

"  I  don't  frighten  you  any  more  than  you 
frighten  me,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  smothered  voice, 
her  grey  eyes  dilating  and  darkening  as  she  spoke, 
and  her  white  fingers  clasping  each  other  tightly 
over  the  book  she  held.  "It  frightens  me — it 
almost  kills  me,  when  I  think  of  all  the  girls  going 
on  in  such  sin ;  when  I  think  of  their  danger,  I 
am  almost  sick  with  fear.  I  cannot  tell  you 
— I  never  told  anybody — I  never  talked  to  any- 
body before — I  can't  ask  them,  I  can't  say  a  word 
to  them ;  but  it  makes  me  so  wretched !  Long 
hours  at  night,  when  they  are  all  asleep  so  quietly, 
it  seems  to  me  sometimes  I  shall  go  wild  with 
thinking  of  their  souls — their  souls  that  they  are 
throwing  away.  No  life  in  them — do  you  know 
that  ?    Careless  and  quiet  and  easy,  and  yet  before 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING. 


143 


the  night  is  over  they  may  be  required  of  them. 
Oh,  God  knows  I  pray  ! — God  knows  I  would  give 
anything  to  turn  them  "  

"Don't — don't  talk  so!"  cried  Louie,  raising  her 
head.  "  It  makes  me  miserable.  You  have  always 
been  good — you  don't  know  how  it  feels  to  be  full 
of  wicked,  stubborn  thoughts — to  feel  as  if  you 
hated  people,  as  if  there  was  nothing  but  wicked- 
ness in  you — to  feel  as  if  you  had  no  right  to  think 
of  going  "  

"  I  do  know,  I  know  better  than  you  do.  You 
have  friends  and  have  something  to  keep  you  from 
uncharitableness,  but  everybody  turns  away  from 
me,  and  I  have  had  to  forgive  them  all.  I  used  to 
think  I  never  could.  I  used  to  think,  before  I  was 
confirmed,  I  never  could  get  used  to  it ;  but  I  have, 
I  don't  think  anything  about  it  now,  I  am  perfectly 
certain  it's  all  right." 

"Frances,  you  must  forgive  my  part;  I  never 
knew  anything  about  it ;  I  never  thought "  

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  Frances, 
leaning  back,  with  a  low  sigh,  the  strange  look 
passing  out  of  her  eyes,  as  she  regained  her  usual 
manner ;  "  I  have  no  claim  on  anybody  ;  I  am  very 
useless  and  don't  do  any  one  any  good ;  I  ought 
not  to  expect  any  love." 

"  If  my  love  is  worth  anything,  you  will  always 


louie's  last  term. 


have  mine.  Oh,  Frances,  won't  you  be  my  friend? 
I  need  you  more  than  you  need  me." 

"  I  never  had  a  friend ;  I  don't  know  how  to  be 
of  any  good  to  any  one,"  said  the  girl,  with  a 
momentary  cloud  of  pain  passing  over  her  sensitive 
face. 

"  Oh,  help  me !"  cried  Louie,  catching  her  hand. 
"  Tell  me  how  you  ev§r  grew  to  be  so  good.  I  am  so 
wretched ;  I  can't  tell  you  half  how  desperate.  It's 
all  tangled  and  miserable.  I  am  almost  tired  of 
longing  to  be  better — I  am  so  tired,  I  sometimes 
wish  I  could  die.  Yes,  die  ;  don't  look  so  troubled. 
It  is  wicked,  but  it's  no  wickeder  than  half  my 
other  thoughts ;  I  don't  think  I  am  afraid  to  die, 
not  half  as  much  afraid  as  I  am  to  go  on  living  this 
wretched  life,  doing  wrong  all  the  time,  and  with 
a  gnawing  pain  at  my  heart  forever." 

"  Don't  you  see,  then,  that  God  wants  you  to  be 
better — that  He  cannot  give  you  up,  though  you  go 
on  disobeying  and  denying  Him  ?  That  pain  will 
grow  worse  and  worse  if  you  won't  listen  to  it  till 
it  kills  your  soul "  

"Hush!  you  must  not  say  such  things,"  cried 
Louie,  hiding  her  face  and  shuddering.  "  Don't  be 
so  cruel ;  only  tell  me  what  to  do — only  teach  me 
how  to  be  better — fit  to  live,  if  I  am  not  fit  to  die. 
I  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die,  if  I  can  only  get 


THE  SKY  IS  RED  AND  LOWERING.  145 


forgiven.  Sit  down  by  me  again;  don't  go 
away.  If  you  won't  say  such  dreadful  things,  I 
will  do  anything  you  tell  me  to.  Bead  to  me  in 
your  book — talk  to  me  quietly.  Oh !  if  you  knew 
how  my  head  ached !" 

It  was  twilight  in  Miss  Emily's  room  before 
Frances  went  away.  Louie  shuddered  a  little  as 
she  let  her  go,  but  she  was  now  quieted  and  com- 
forted enough  to  bear  the  gloom  of  the  half  hour 
that  preceded  tea-time.  She  sat  down  in  the  win- 
dow, trying  to  keep  sight  of  what  daylight  was  left 
as  long  as  she  could,  and  then  essayed  repeating 
from  memory  all  the  "  Words  for  the  Day  "  ,and 
hymns  she  could  recollect.  But  they  were  evanes- 
cent and  hard  to  arrest ;  she  felt  too  weak  and  too 
sick  to  remember  anything  correctly  or  make  any 
mental  effort ;  she  could  only  say  them  over  to  her- 
self till  she  grew  dreamy  and  listless;  her  half- 
closed  eyes  rested  on  the  fast-fading  light  in  the 
western  sky,  and  her  thoughts  wandered  far  away 
across  cold  leagues  of  ocean,  to  the  sweet  Italian 
home,  where  her  mother  perhaps  and  Larry  were 
welcoming  her  father  as  he  came  back  from  his 
long  day  on  board  ship.  That  soft,  rosy  sky — not 
cold  and  grey  like  this — was  shining  on  the  face 
she  loved  so  much.  Was  it  mournful  to-night,  she 
wondered  ?    Had  mother  a  thought  for  her  ?  Did 

7 


146 


louie's  last  term. 


her  hand  touch  vacantly  and  listlessly  Larry's 
pretty  curls,  as  he  played  around  her  knee,  and  her 
kind  smile  die  faintly  when  he  looked  away  ?  And 
for  the  others,  was  the  smile  as  short-lived  and  the 
eyes  as  absent  ? 

"  Ah  !  mother,  mother,  if  you  only  knew !" 

Yes,  if  she  only  knew ;  but  One  tenderer  even 
than  she  knows — knows  and  pities. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  BISHOP. 
"  They  best  can  bind  who  have  been  bruised  oft." 

"  I  will  leave  you ;  you  may  wait  here  till  the 
Bishop  comes." 

Mr.  Rogers  said  this  as  he  left  the  Study,  pre- 
ceded by  Miss  Barlow.  Louie  bent  her  head 
mechanically ;  the  words  did  not  convey  much  to 
her.  She  sat  down  by  the  table  when  they  left  her 
alone,  and,  with  a  dull,  tired  feeling,  leaned  her 
head  on  her  hand  and  watched  the  flicker  of  the 
gaslight,  and  traced  out  the  pattern  on  the  paper 
shade  over  it. 

The  Bishop  was  coming,  then.  "Well,  that  was 
very  frightful,  but,  somehow,  she  was  too  tired  to 
be  frightened.  She  mdj  longed  for  it  to  be  over, 
that  she  might  go  upstairs  and  go  to  bed.  The 
Bishop  knew  all  about  it ;  she  would  not  have  the 
trouble  of  trying  to  tell  him.  He  knew  she  had 
been  openly  and  outrageously  disrespectful  to  Miss 
Barlow — had  insulted  her,  in  fact — and  that,  be- 

147 


us 


louie's  last  term. 


sides  that,  and  the  complaints  of  Miss  Marbais  and 
Mr.  Yan  Buren,  she  was  convicted  of  so  much 
deceit  and  such  a  falsehood  about  the  novel,  that 
she  must  be  prepared  for  his  severest  displeasure. 
It  seemed,  indeed,  as  plain  as  daylight,  that  Louie 
was  persisting  in  a  falsehood.  Nothing  but  her 
word  against  all  this  evidence.  At  first,  the  accusa- 
tion had  roused  her  to  extremest  anger,  but  she 
soon  grew  aware  of  the  apparent  justice  of  its  in- 
justice, and  the  hopelessness  of  her  case ;  and,  cal- 
lous and  sullen,  she  had  sunk  into  an  indifference 
from  which,  in  the  half-hour's  interview  she  had 
just  passed  through,  Mr.  Rogers  had  failed  to  rouse 
her.  He  was  disheartened  and  uneasy;  nothing 
since  he  had  charge  of  the  school  had  vexed  him 
more.  Here  was  a  girl  upon  whom  kindness 
seemed  to  make  no  impression,  and  whom  severity 
only  seemed  to  harden.  He  could  have  dealt  with 
her  obstinacy  and  willfulness,  if  that  had  been  all, 
but  this  discovery  of  habitual  deceitfulness,  and  this 
open  and  shameless  persistence  in  a  falsehood, 
while  it  steeled  his  heart  completely  against  her, 
threw  him  into  great  doubt  as  to  the  course  he 
ought  to  pursue.  Such  an  example  as  this  might 
do  endless  mischief  in  the  school — had,  he  feared, 
already  done  it ;  prompt  measures  must  be  taken  to 
reduce  her  to  submission,  or  show  the  others  that 


THE  BISHOP. 


149 


euch  insubordination  could  not  be  tolerated.  While 
he  had  a  strong  concern  for  the  good  of  the  one, 
the  many  must  not  be  sacrificed  to  it. 

Mr.  Rogers,  though  a  very  kind,  and  just,  and 
sensible  man,  was  a  fallible  man  for  all  that,  and 
could  not  see,  through  the  obscuring  mists  of  error 
and  misfortune  and  mistake  that  hung  around 
Louie,  into  the  real  honesty  and  misery  of  her 
heart.  Not  one  person  in  twenty  could  have  seen 
it ;  not  one  in  twenty  but  would  have  treated  her 
with  double  the  harshness  that  he  did.  Indeed,  it 
is  hardly  fair  to  call  it  harshness ;  he  was  too  mudh. 
grieved  to  be  harsh,  but  his  manner  was  so  plain 
an  indication  of  his  feelings  that  it  sent  a  chill  of 
hopelessness  to  her  heart.  How  could  she  ever 
make  him  .  believe  her — was  there  any  use  in  try- 
ing ?  "Would  any  one  believe  her  ?  No !  She 
would  not  try — she  would  not  say  another  word. 
They  might  do  anything  they  pleased  with  her,  she 
did  not  care,  she  would  not  answer  nor  defend  her- 
self. They  meant  to  frighten  her  into  submission 
by  sending  her  to  the  Bishop — the  Bishop  would  be 
here  in  five  minutes,  and — she  did  not  care.  He 
was  very  much  displeased,  Mr.  Rogers  had  made 
her  understand.  She  had  sometimes  fancied,  when 
she  had  watched  his  face  in  church  in  the  pauses  of 
the  service,  that  it  would  be  a  very  terrible  thing  to 


150 


louie's  last  term. 


see  it  hardened  into  displeasure — the  very  worst 
thing,  indeed,  that  could  happen ;  but  now  she  said 
to  herself,  actually,  she  did  not  care. 

And  she  was  not  very  far  mistaken  about  her 
feelings,  perhaps.  The  thread  of  injustice  that  ran 
through  the  complaints  against  her,  just  gave  her 
enough  to  hold  by  to  resent  all  the  rest.  She  was 
very  bad,  she  knew  that.  She  was  rebellious  and  self- 
willed,  and  had  long  been  heedless  and  inattentive ; 
she  was  bitterly  sorry  for  all  this,  and  had  meant  to 
mend,  till  they  threw  upon  her  this  shameful  im- 
putation  of  dishonesty.  An  accusation  that  roused 
her  as  no  other  could  have  done,  for  never  having 
been  cowardly  or  mean  in  disposition,  she  had 
never  been  tempted  to  prevarication  or  deceit,  but* 
spoke  the  truth  and  acted  "  out  and  out "  as  she 
felt,  as  many  a  timider  but  better  child  has  lacked 
the  strength  to  do.  She  scorned  deceit ;  in  fact,  it 
had  never  been  her  temptation,  and  she  did  not 
fairly  know  what  it  meant.  She  knew  what  hatred, 
and  malice,  and  uncharitableness  meant ;  she  knew 
what  pride,  and  self-will,  and  disobedience  meant ; 
but,  except  to  loathe  and  despise  them  in  others,  she 
did  not  know  what  falsehood  and  intriguing  meant. 

And  so,  when  such  a  suspicion  was  cast  upon  her, 
at  first  it  made  her  passionately  angry ;  but  when 
she  felt  it  fastening  itself  upon  her,  and  had  to  own 


THE  BISHOP. 


L51 


there  was  no  help,  and  saw  with  her  own  eyes,  there 
was  a  look  of  truth  about  the  bitter,  shameful  lie, 
she  ceased  to  struggle  as  it  tightened  around  her, 
and  worn  out  and  reckless,  sunk  down  beneath  it. 

Several  minutes  passed  before  she  heard  the  hall 
door  open.  How  well  she  knew  that  step  across  the 
hall !  she  had  listened  to  its  quick  echoes  too  often 
down  the  long  passage  that  led  to  the  chapel  not  to 
know  what  presence  it  intimated. 

"Was  she  frightened  ?  There  was  a  'sort  of  chok- 
ing in  her  throat  for  a  minute  as  she  heard  Mr. 
Rogers'  voice  outside  in  a  low  parley,  but  before  the 
Study  door  opened,  she  was  solid,  stubborn  and  indif- 
ferent again.  She  rose  mechanically  as  it  closed 
upon  the  new-comer,  lifting  her  eyes  for  one  glance, 
then  fastening  them  upon  the  floor  again.  Yes, 
that  was  the  face  she  had  imagined  in  church,  that 
was  the  very,  very  look  she  feared,  only  so  much 
worse,  as  much  worse  as  facts  are  than  fancies  when 
we  come  to  face  them. 

It  suited  well  the  slow,  deliberate  voice  that  met 
her  ear,  that  strange  sympathetic  moving  voice,  that 
stern  as  it  was,  swept  away  all  the  pride  and  stub- 
bornness in  her  heart.  He  believed  she  was  guilty ; 
he  was  telling  her  so,  and  of  the  pain  it  gave  him  to 
believe  such  a  thing  of  one  of  the  children  whom 
he  prayed  with  and  for  daily,  whose  souls  were  in 


152 


lodie's  last  term. 


his  care ;  lie  asked  her  earnestly  and  as  if  his  heart 
were  in  the  question,  if,  since  he  must  believe  it,  he 
might  not  also  find  she  had  resolved  to  acknowledge 
and  repent  of  it? 

A  nightmare  seemed  choking  the  words  that 
rushed  to  her  lips,  she  tried  to  speak,  but  no  sound 
came ;  she  tried  to  raise  her  eyes,  but  they  sunk  be- 
fore they  met  the  eyes  fastened  so  scrutinizingly 
upon  her.  Oh,  if  she  could  only  speak,  if  she 
could  only  tell  him  !  She  felt  as  if  she  should  die  if 
he  went  on  believing  her  guilty;  it  was  little  to  her 
now  what  any  one  else  thought,  but  she  must  make 
him  understand.  There !  The  pause  had  passed,  he 
had  begun  to  speak  again,  and  he  was  thinking  her 
obstinate  and  unmoved,  and  his  tone,  though  it  was 
not  harder  and  colder,  as  she  feared,  had  such  a  so- 
lemnity in  it  that  she  hardly  heard  the  words,  hardly 
dared  to  think  what  they  might  mean. 

The  precious  minutes  were  slipping  away,  the 
only  chance  she  might  ever  have  to  tell  him — it  was 
cruel  that  she  could  not  speak ;  and  when  he  paused 
again,  the  effort  to  command  her  voice,  the  terror 
lest  she  should  not  make  him  understand,  made  such 
bewildering  confusion  in  her  aching  head,  that  a 
giddiness  came  over  her,  and  she  could  only  grasp 
the  chair  before  her  for  support,  and  shut  her  eyes 
from  the  glare  of  the  gaslight  on  the  table. 


THE  BISHOP. 


153 


"My  child,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
voice,  "have  we  misunderstood  you  after  all?  Only 
tell  me  what  you  have  done,  I  will  promise  to  be- 
lieve you." 

At  that  instant,  the  Chapel  bell  began  to  ring  for 
evening  service,  and  that  sound,  with  its  double  re- 
minder of  her  sin  and  its  consequence,  broke  down 
all  the  desperation  and  fear  that  had  combined  to 
make  up  her  outward  calmness.  She  sank  down  in 
the  chair  on  which  she  had  been  leaning,  and  bow- 
ing her  head  on  the  table,  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  She  had  forgotten  all  but  that  she  was  for- 
bidden to  go  to  Chapel,  that  Mr.  .Rogers  had  said  she 
was  to  go  away  by  herself  and  neither  take  her 
meals  nor  go  to  prayers  nor  join  in  any  way  with 
her  companions.  Chapel  had  often  been  irksome 
to  her  before ;  she  had  often  heard  the  bell  with  re- 
gret for  her  interrupted  amusement  or  work,  and 
had  wondered  that  it  came  so  soon  and  recurred  so 
often;  but  now,  since  all  this  trouble  had  come  upon 
her,  and  since  Frances  had  shown  her  where  it  had 
begun,  she  felt  the  wildest  longing  to  kneel  again 
among  the  children,  and  hear  the  absolution  she  had 
so  often  neglected  to  appropriate,  and  pray  for  the 
peace  it  promised.  It  seemed  to  her,  that  to  hear 
that  bell  stop,  and  the  doors  close  upon  the  Bishop 
and  the  assembled  children,  and  know  that  she  was 

>7* 


154  louie's  last  teem. 

shut  out,  would  be  worse  than  any  terror  she  had 
ever  known,  too  hopeless  and  cruel  for  belief. 

"  Oh,  sir!"  she  cried,  lifting  her  head  and  speaking 
in  a  broken,  hurried  voice,  "let  me  go  to  Chapel.  I 
know  you  don't  believe  me,  I  know  nobody  does ; 
I  know  you  think  I  am  not  fit  to  go  among  the 
others ;  but  it  will  kill  me  if  I  am  shut  out — you 
don't  know  how  it  frightens  me.  Let  me  go  to- 
night— let  me  go  this  once." 

"Tell  me  first,"  he  said,  looking  thoughtfully  at 
her,  "  why  you  want  to  go.  Is  it  because  you  do 
not  wish  the  girls  to  see  you  are  disgraced,  or  have 
you  a  better  reason?" 

"I  don't  care  about  the  girls,  they'll  all  know  it 
soon  enough,  if  they  don't  know  it  now.  It  isn't 
that — it's  only  for  myself  I  want  to  go,  I  am  so 
frightened,  so  miserable.  Oh,  sir!  if  I  could  only 
tell  you,  if  you  would  only  believe  me!" 

"My  poor  child,  I  do,  I  will  believe  you." 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  with  an  eager  gesture 
and  hurried  on:  "I  have  been  so  bad,  wrong  about 
everything,  self-willed  and  ugly  and  hateful,  I 
never  dreamed  one  could  get  in  one  short  summer 
so  far  wrong.  Oh !  I  never  could  tell  you  half  my 
impatience  and  wickedness — getting  worse  and 
worse  all  the  time.  I  see  it  all  now,  I  know  what 
it  is  all  for;  I  know  I  deserve  that  every  one  should 


THE  BISHOP. 


155 


think  ill  of  me,  it  is  no  wonder  I  am  so  punished. 
I  want  to  tell  you — only  it  is  of  no  use — I  don't  ex- 
pect you  to  believe  me — but  I  never  read  that  book. 
I  never  saw  it  before.  I  haven't  read  a  novel  since 
I  came  here.  I  don't  know  how  it  came  by  me  on 
the  bed.  I  did  not  know  a  thing  about  it  till  Mr. 
Rogers  showed  it  to  me.  Oh  sir!  please  believe 
me — please  believe  I  would  not  lie.  How  could  I!" 

"  Aye,  how  could  you !"  he  repeated  in  a  low 
tone,  as  if  to  himself,  as  he  looked  thoughtfully  at 
her. 

"I  know  it  all  looks  black  enough.  I  don't 
blame  them  for  thinking  as  they  do,  it  would  be 
strange  if  they  did  not.  Everything  is  against  me, 
even  mother's  book  is  gone.  I  cannot  find  that  to 
show  them,  I  could  not  even  bear  to  tell  them  what 
it  was.  It  seemed  to  me,  when  I  found  it  was  gone 
out  of  my  desk,  as  if  she  had  deserted  me  too.  I 
have  hunted  everywhere — everywhere — but  there 
is  no  use,  it  is  gone." 

"  You  left  it  in  your  desk  you  say — this  book  ?" 

u  Yes,  I  always  kept  it  there.  At  first  I  had  it 
upstairs  on  the  shelf  with  my  Bible,  but  one  of  the 
girls  laughed,  and  I  was  ashamed  and  took  it  down- 
stairs and  kept  it  under  my  other  books.  I'd  give 
anything  I've  got  to  see  it  once  again,  even  though  it 
didn't  clear  me,  for  it  was  fhother's  last  souvenir, 


156 


louie's  last  term. 


just  as  1  left  her  on  the  ship  that  day,  and  she 
whispered  to  me ;  read  it  every  day ;  and  I  promised 
her  I  would,  and  oh,  it  makes  me  sick  to  think 
how  miserably  I  have  neglected  it !  Sometimes  I 
have  forgotten  it  for  days  together,  and  I  shouldn't 
have  remembered  it  that  morning,  only  there  had 
been  something  on  Sunday  about  keeping  promises 
that  made  me  think  of  it,  and  I  resolved  to  come 
down  early  every  morning  and  read  before  Chapel. 
It  was  very  careless  in  me  not  to  listen  for  the 
stopping  of  the  bell ;  I  don't  how  it  happened,  and 
then  Miss  Barlow  was  very  angry,  and  I  was  very 
disrespectful,  and  so  it  has  gone  on.  And  now 
they  all  believe  I  have  told  a  falsehood,  and  am 
persisting  in  it,  and  nothing  I  can  say  will  change 
them." 

"  Did  you  tell  Mr.  Eogers  this  ?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  told  him,  I  can't 
remember  half  that  happened,  my  head  has  ached 
so  awfully.  I  didn't — no — I  am  sure  now  I  didn't 
tell  him  about  the  4  Sacra  Privata ;'  Miss  Barlow 
was  by,  and  I  couldn't." 

"  What  difference  did  that  make  ?" 

"I  can't  explain  exactly,  sir.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  only  she  makes  me  so  wicked — even  if  she 
doesn't  say  a  word,  I'm  just  as  angry  as  I  can  be 
the  minute  I  come  net r  her.    I  thought  I  had  for- 


THE  BISHOP. 


157 


given  her,  and  was  all  done  with  such  sort  of  feel- 
ings this  afternoon  after  I  had  been  talking  to 
Frances,  but  the  first  minute  she  came  into  the 
room  to-night,  they  were  all  back.  But  I  do  for- 
give her,  I  do  really.  I  am  not  angry,  I  shall  feel 
so  different  if  you  will  let  me  go  to  Chapel.  I 
am  sure  I  shall  feel  better  after  Chapel- — Oh,  sir  ! 
Think  how  I  need  it.  And  after  all,  it  can't  hurt 
any  one,  my  going.  I  am  no  worse  than  I  have 
been  this  long  time — Mr.  Rogers  couldn't  be  angry 
if  you  let  me." 

"  Child,  how  can  you  think  there  is  any  need  of 
such  pleading  ?" 

"  You  will  not  refuse  me  ?"  she  interrupted,  in  an 
agony  of  earnestness,  as  the  last  vibration  of  the 
Chapel  bell  swung  upon  the  air. 

"  My  child,"  and  a  gentle  hand  touched  the 
bowed  head,  "  prayers  and  pardon  and  peace  are 
for  such  as  you.  Only  such  as  feel  the  guilt  and 
burden  of  their  sins  can  fully  meet  the  Presence 
that  waits  within  holy  walls ;  for  them  He  is  '  wait- 
ing to  be  gracious,'  for  their  prayers  alone  His  ear 
is  open.  You  were  never  fitter  to  seek  Him  than 
you  are  to-night,  fie  never  loved  you  better  than 
He  does  to-night,  His  boundless  love  and  pity  are 
stooping  down  from  Heaven  to  infold  you,  His  gra- 
cious heart  is  yearning  to  forgive  you.    Only  go  to 


158  louie's  last  term. 

Him,  my  child.  Go  to  Him  with  your  sins  upon 
your  head,  and  ask  Him  to  take  them  away.  Tell 
Him  all  that  is  in  your  heart,  tell  Him  all  your 
hope  is  in  Him,  that  there  is  nothing  else  but  His 
forgiveness  that  can  do  you  any  good.  He  will 
not  doubt  you,  He  will  not  misapprehend  you.  He 
is  as  infinitely  true  and  just  as  He  is  kind.  His 
favor  is  better  than  life  itself.  Once  make  that 
yours  and  you  will  not  mind  the  rest.  You  will 
not  mind  coldness  and  suspicion  and  misconstruc- 
tion. It  will  hardly  pain  you  that  no  one  else 
knows  your  heart  if  He  does.  A  love  that  passeth 
Knowledge,  a  peace  that  the  world  can  neither  give 
nor  take  away,  a  hope  that  is  strong  as  no  human 
hope  can  be — such  are  the  rewards  He  has  for  them 
that  seek  Him,  even  here.  So  He  makes  up  to 
them  their  share  of  happiness,  even  here.  My 
child,  it  is  a  blessed  service,  it  is  a  blessed  peace. 
Ask  Him  for  it  on  your  knees  to-night,  and  He 
cannot,  will  not  send  you  empty  away.  He  has 
never  failed  them  that  seek  Him  yet,  He  will  not 
begin  with  the  last,  the  weakest,  the  youngest  of 
His  flock." 

It  must  have  been  the  dawning  of  the  promised 
peace  that  stilled  the  storm  so  entirely  while  she 
listened  to  these  words ;  she  did  not  lift  her  head 
nor  speak  when  he  paused  ;  there  was  such  a  still- 


THE  BISHOP. 


159 


ness  in  the  room,  in  all  the  house,  in  her  heart.  All 
were  in  the  Chapel  waiting  for  the  Bishop ;  there 
was  not  a  footfall  nor  a  sound  throughout  the 
deserted  halls  and  empty  rooms ;  and  after  a 
moment,  through  the  half-closed  doors, 

"  A  rolling  organ-harmony 
Swells  up  and  shakes  and  falls." 

Louie  started  a  little  and  raised  her  head,  recalled 
to  the  almost  forgotten  present.  The  Bishop  had 
put  on  his  surplice,  and  said,  stretching  out  his  hand 
to  her. 

"  Come,  my  child,  they  are  waiting." 

It  was  so  strange,  so  dreamy,  following  him 
through  the  hall  toward  the  Chapel,  from  which 
the  distant  music  was  swelling,  their  steps  echoing 
audibly  through  the  emptiness ;  the  lights,  faint  and 
dim.  At  the  Chapel  door  he  paused  and  laid  his 
hand  for  a  moment  on  her  head. 

"  May  God  bless  this  service  to  your  soul." 

Then  opening  the  door,  he  preceded  her  into  the 
Chapel. 


CHAPTEE  X. 


THE  CHAPEL. 


"  All  without  is  mean  and  small, 
All  within  is  vast  and  tall ; 
All  without  is  harsh  and  shrill, 
All  within  is  hushed  and  still. 

"  Jesus,  let  me  enter  in, 
Wrap  me  safe  from  noise  and  sin. 
Jesus,  Lord,  my  heart  will  break, 
Save  me  for  Thy  great  love's  sake." 

Kingsley. 

Miss  Barlow's  girls  sat  in  the  last  row  of  seats  but 
one  at  the  other  end  of  the  Chapel,  so  there  was  a 
long  trial  to  Louie  before  she  gained  her  seat — or 
rather,  would  have  been,  if  she  had  had  a  thought 
of  any  of  the  things  that  are  seen ;  if  the  things  of 
eternity,  the  presence  of  God,  the  peril  of  her  soul, 
had  not  been  the  real,  the  actual  to  her  then.  At 
any  time  in  her  life  before,  it  would  have  been  a 
trial  to  her  to  have  known  that  as  she  came  into 
the  lighted  Chapel,  there  wrere  so  many  keen  young 
eyes  turned  upon  her,  so  many  looks  of  wonder 
following  her  to  her  seat.    There  had  been  a  sort 

160 


THE  CHAPEL. 


161 


of  lull  in  the  music,  it  was  soft  and  low  as  they 
entered ;  they  had  been  waiting  some  minutes  for 
the  Bishop's  entrance,  and  every  eye  was  fastened 
on  the  door  as  his  well-known  step  was  heard 
approaching,  and  when  there  entered  with  him 
this  unexpected  attendant,  there  was  involuntary 
surprise  on  every  face,  and  as  she  turned  down  the 
aisle  toward  her  place,  and  the  Bishop  turned  the 
other  way  and  went  toward  the  chancel,  the 
fickle,  wondering  little  faces  bent  curiously  forward 
and  gazed  after  the  one  that  most  excited  their 
curiosity. 

But  Louie  did  not  heed ;  the*  row  upon  row  of 
attentive  faces,  the  stillness,  the  soft,  bright  lights, 
might  have  been  the  adjuncts  of  a  misty  dream, 
they  were  not  realities  to  her.  She  heeded  the  liv- 
ing multitude  around  her  no  more  than  we  heed 
the  witnesses,  who,  we  are  told,  "  hold  us  in  full 
survey,"  the  saints,  whose  faith  is  changed  to  sight, 
the  angels,  who  always  behold  the  face  of  our 
Father  in  Heaven.  There  was  but  one  thought. 
She  was  in  the  presence  of  God — but  one  desire,  to 
be  forgiven  of  Him,  to  be  received  of  Him. 

And  that  service  was  blessed  to  her  soul.  It  was 
a  service  unmixed  with  one  thought  of  the  mise- 
rable world  that  mixes  too  much  with  all  our  best 
services,  untainted  with  one  wish,  one  longing  that 


162 


louie's  last  term. 


was  separate  from  His  will  whom  she  worshipped. 
God  help  us !  who  go  so  loiteringly  and  pray  so 
listlessly!  The  way  might  not  be  so  long,  the 
'  prayers  required  so  weary,  and  so  many  times 
repeated,  if  they  were  more  real,  more  vivid,  more 
entire.  One  service,  such  as  this,  might  save  us 
years  of  sacrifice;  might  bring  us  nearer  to  that 
Holiness,  without  which  we  cannot  see  our  Lord, 
than  half  a  lifetime  spent  in  such  worship  as  we 
have  grown  to  think  is  the  best  our  nature  is  capa- 
ble of. 

"  Hear  my  prayer,  O  Lord,  and  consider  my 
desire ;  hearken  unto  me  for  Thy  truth  and  righte- 
ousness' sake. 

"  And  enter  not  into  judgment  with  thy  servant ; 
for  in  Thy  sight  shall  no  man  living  be  justified." 

Louie,  on  her  knees,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands, 
had  tried  to  find  words  for  her  wants,  had  tried  to 
utter  the  thoughts  her  heart  was  bursting  with ;  but 
it  was  all  a  tumult  of  passionate  repentance,  an 
utter  self-abasement,  a  prostrate  cry  for  mercy, 
wordless  and  voiceless,  audible  only  to  Him  who 
knows  our  necessities  before  we  ask.  She  had 
heard  the  others  rise  to  their  feet  a  moment  after 
she  had  entered ;  she  was  still  kneeling,  and  she 
pressed  her  hands  before  her  face,  as  the  many 
voices,  low  and  full,  chanted  this  prayer,  the  very 


THE  CHAPEL. 


163 


prayer  she  had  been  wanting  to  find  the  words  for, 
the  prayer  of  which  her  heart  had  been  so  full.  It 
seemed  to  her  almost  as  if  the  angels  had  seen  into 
her  soul,  and  pitying  her  ignorance  and  confusion 
and  misery,  had  bent  themselves  before  the  Great 
White  Throne,  and  breathed  for  her  the  prayer  she 
heard — so  low,  far  off,  unearthly  it  sounded  to  her 
ears. 

But  it  took  half  the  burden  off  her  heart ;  the 
actual  putting  into  words  of  her  dreadful  self- 
reproach  seemed  to  take  away  its  pain ;  and  when 
the  music  ceased,  she  rose  from  her  knees,  quieted 
>and  almost  peaceful. 

There  was  a  moment's  stillness,  and  then  the 
voice  that  had  always  brought  her  comfort,  read : 

"The  sacrifices  of  God  are  a  broken  spirit;  a 
broken  and  a  contrite  heart,  O  God,  Thou  wilt  not 
despise." 

There  was  no  danger  that  He  would  despise  this 
one  now  offered  to  Him.  The  last,  the  youngest, 
the  weakest,  to  such  He  is  ever  tenderest,  of  such 
He  has  made  His  Kingdom  to  consist. 


CHAPTER  XL 


CORRUPTION   AND  BRIBERY. 

"  0  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive  !" 

Scott. 

"  Stupid  !  stop  when  I  call  you,  why  don't 
yon?"  Addy  McFarlane  said,  with  more  energy 
than  she  ordinarily  used,  laying  a  correspondingly 
emphatic  grasp  upop.  Alice  Aulay's  shoulder,  who 
was  trying  to  hurry  past  her  into  the  playground. 

"  How  can  I  stop  ?"  Alice  replied,  fretfully,  trying 
to  free  herself  with  as  much  impatience  as  she  dared 
to  show.  "  I'm  in  a  great  hurry.  Julia  is  waiting 
for  me." 

"  What  does  Julia  want  of  you,  pray  ?" 

""Why  I've  something  to  tell  her,  she  sent  me  to 
find  out  something  for  her — let  go,  Addy — let  go, 
please  do." 

"  Oh  ho  1"  said  Addy,  letting  go  of  the  white 
shoulder  on  which  her  hand  had  left  a  mark,  but 
keeping,  as  a  hostage,  an  end  of  a  long,  light  curl 

164 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


165 


between  her  fingers,  while  she  changed  her  tone  of 
authority  to  one  of  coaxing  kindness.  "  I  say, 
Ally,  do  you  want  me  to  look  out  those  capitals  for 
you?  I'd  just  as  soon — I  haven't  anything  else  to 
do  before  school.  Bring  your  map,  and  sit  down 
here  by  me  on  the  steps." 

"  ISTo.  thank  you,"  said  Alice,  with  some  dignity, 
withdrawing  to  the  extremest  limits  of  the  long 
curl,  which  Adelaide  firmly  retained.  "  Julia's 
found  all  but  three  for  me,  and  those  I  promised 
her  I'd  do  for  myself.  She's  got  my  map  out 
under  the  apple-tree  with  her,  and  she's  waiting. 
I  wish  you'd  let  me  go  !". 

"  Oh  you  little  gipsy !  I  don't  see  why  you're 
always  after  Julia;  I  never  can  get  you  to  stay 
near  me.  What  does  Julia  do  to  make  you  so 
mighty  fond  of  her  ?" 

"  Why,  she  doesn't  do  anything,"  returned  Alice, 
feeling  very  important.  "  She's  so  beautiful  and 
so  good,  nobody  can  help  being  fond  of  her." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Adelaide,  meditatively ;  "  she's 
the  prettiest  girl  in  our  dormitory,  by  all  odds." 

"In  any  dormitory,"  cried  Alice,  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Well,  yes,  perhaps  so.  Georgy  Eeynolds  is 
pretty,  but  then  she's  so  conceited,  and  Susie 
McAllister's  face  gets  in  such  a  blaze  whenever 


166 


louie's  last  term. 


she's  spoken  to,  that  it  spoils  all  her  good  looks. 
Now,  Julia's  so  quiet  and  sweet,  and  has  such  nice 
manners,  that  nobody  can  help  liking  her." 

"She's  so  good!  I'd  give  anything  to  be  like 
her." 

"Yes,  she's  a  very  good  girl,  and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you  were  as  good  when  you're  as  old. 
I  don't  believe  you'll  look  like  her,  though ;  you'll 
be  prettier." 

«  What!" 

"Why,  you'll  be  prettier  than  Julia,  when  you're 
her  age,"  said  Adelaide,  with  a  quiet  eye  on  her 
little  companion's  face.  "You'll  be  taller,  you 
know ;  Julia's  too  short.  And  her  hair  don't  curl ; 
yours  will  be  down  to  your  knees  in  ringlets  by 
the  time  you're  grown  up." 

"  How  foolish  you  are !"  said  Alice,  feeling  very 
hot  and  twisting  her  head  away,  but  quite  disposed 
to  hear  a  little  more.  "  I  don't  think  light  hair  is 
pretty  a  bit ;  I  like  brown  hair,  such  as  Julia's,  a 
great  deal  better." 

"  Ah,  no !"  and  Adelaide  shook  her  head. 
"  There's  nothing  so  sweet  as  i  light  curls.  I  wish 
my  hair  would  curl." 

"  Don't  it  at  all  ?"  asked  Alice,  curiously,  look- 
ing with  much  interest  at  Adelaide's  flaxen  braids, 
and  realizing  more  fully  than  she  had  ever  done  be- 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


167 


fore  the  unspeakable  value  of  the  adornments  of 
her  head.   "  I  should  think  it  might,  if  you  tried  it." 

"  Not  the  least  use.  I've  wet  it,  and  twisted  it, 
and  put  it  up  in  papers,  but  it  don't  do  it  a  bit  of 
good.  It's  just  as  straight  as  a  candle — there's  no 
curl  to  it." 

"All  our  family  have  curly  hair,"  Alice  said,  in- 
voluntarily straightening  herself  up,  and  giving  a 
complacent  toss  to  the  admired  ringlets.  "  Why, 
little  Sister  Lilly's  hair  isn't  so  long  as  mine,  but  it 
curls  all  over  her  head.  Papa  says  it  shall  be  cut 
off,  it  takes  nurse  so  long  to  fix  it  every  day." 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  a  shame  to  cut  it  off!"  said  Ade- 
laide, warmly.  "I  am  sure  your  papa  wouldn't 
be  so  unkind." 

She  had  secured  Alice  for  the  present,  she  saw, 
and  concluded  she  might  drop  the  curl,  figuratively 
and  literally,  without  danger  of  losing  its  owner ; 
so,  letting  the  ringlet  slip  from  her  fingers,  she 
leaned  back  with  a  yawn,  and  said,  listlessly : 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  me  so  tired !  "Would  you 
mind,  Ally,  running  into  the  schoolroom  and  look- 
ing in  my  desk  for  a  package  of  dough-balls — it's 
lying  on  the  top  of  my  Analyse." 

'  I'll  go,  certainly,"  Alice  replied,  obeying  with 
alacrity. 

When  the  little  fly  came  back,  she  did  not  need 


16S 


louie's  last  term. 


a  second  invitation  to  sit  down  on  the  steps  beside 
Adelaide  and  share  the  contents  of  the  package. 
" Dough-balls "  were  her  acknowledged  passion; 
her  weekly  sixpence  never  knew  any  other  appro- 
priation ;  and  the  only  regret  she  ever  felt  in  thus 
investing  it,  was  the  little  way  it  went  toward 
satisfying  her  appetite  for  the  purcha^d  delicacy. 
Sixpence  was  considered,  among  the  Primaries,  as 
quite  a  handsome  income — even  the  girls  in  Middle 
D.  looked  upon  it  as  a  comfortable  little  thing  to 
be  sure  of;  but,  ah,  the  insufficiency  of  it  to  meet 
this  young  spendthrift's  cravings ! 

"  Why,  Julia,  if  there  was  any  way  of  making  it 
go  further,"  she  had  said  to  Julia  one  day,  and 
Julia  had  laughed  and  hurt  her  feelings  very 
deeply.  But  after  a  while,  Julia  had  been  induced 
to  give  the  subject  greater  attention,  and  had  come 
to  the  conclusion,  with  Alice,  that  nothing  more 
profitable  could  be  done  about  it,,  if  dough-balls 
were  her  fixed  desire.  Sixpence  would  buy  just 
six  dough-balls,  and  no  more.  Alice  had  hoped  that 
if  she  became  a  regular  subscriber  for  that  amount, 
something  might  be  thrown  in — half  a  dough-ball 
a  week,  say ;  or  seven  every  other  week.  But  the 
"  candy  woman "  wouldn't  hear  to  it ;  she  didn't 
make  anything  on  the  dough-balls  anyhow,  she 
said  ;  she  only  kept  'em  for  the  accommodation  of 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


169 


the  young  ladies  at  the  Hall.  Nobody  else  ever 
thought  of  calling  for  'em.  So  Alice  had  to  give 
up  all  hope  of  such  an  arrangement,  and  make  her- 
self contented  with  stretching  out  the  weekly  six 
as  far  as  they  would  go.  And  that  was  a  very  little 
way,  indeed  ;  her  purchase  was  always  made  on 
Saturday  aft^noon,  and  the  last  dough-ball  gene- 
rally went  under  her  pillow  that  night,  crushed  up 
in  a  sticky  handful  of  brown  paper,  to  be  pulled 
out  and  eaten  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Then 
followed  a  dreary  blank,  a  whole  week  uncheered  by 
confectionery.  Alice  counted  the  days  till  Saturday. 

Consider,  then,  what  her  enthusiasm  must  have 
been  when  Adelaide  invited  her  to  "help  herself5' 
out  of  an  untouched  paper  of  dough-balls.  She  ate 
No.  1  without  stopping  for  breath,  then  looked 
with  great,  greedy  eyes  at  Adelaide,  who  was  nib- 
bling rather  daintily  at  hers. 

u  Take  another,  child,"  she  said  ;  and  Alice,  with 
an  overpowering  sensation  of  gratitude,  and  the 
conviction  that  Addy  McFarlane  was  the  best- 
natured  girl  that  ever  lived,  took  another,  and  ate 
it  a  little  more  deliberately,  but  with  infinite  relish. 

"We  shan't  more  than  finish  these  before  the 
bell  rings,  shall  we?"  said  Addy,  looking  at  the 
paper.  "  But  then,  you  said  you  were  going  to  tell 
Julia  a  message,  didn't  you  ?" 


170 


louie?s  last  term. 


"  Oh,  it  wasn't  a  message,"  returned  the  little 
girl,  hastily.  "  There's  no  particular  hurry  ;  it  was 
only  something  she  wanted  me  to  find  out  about." 

"  Upon  my  word,  how  useful  you  are !  Does 
Julia  trust  you  to  do  errands  for  her  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  she  does.  I've  been  about  one 
ever  since  breakfast  for  her." 

"  Well,  did  you  get  through  it?" 

"  Yes,  as  far  as  I  can.  But  then  I  can't  find  out 
much  till  noon.  Mrs.  Seward  is  so  busy,  she 
couldn't  tell  me  much." 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  did  you  have  to  ask  of 
Mrs.  Seward?" 

"  Oh,  about  Louie  Atterbury,  you  know.  Julia's 
so  wretched  about  her,  she  don't  know  what  to  do. 
When  she  saw  her  bed  was  empty  this  morning 
when  we  got  up,  and  that  she  didn't  come  to 
Chapel  either,  she  was  so  frightened,  I  know  she 
cried  all  during  prayers,  and  she  made  me  watch 
for  Mrs.  Seward  till  the  breakfast  bell  rang,  to  ask 
her  what  the  matter  was,  or  where  Louie  had  gone. 
She  was  afraid  to  ask  Miss  Barlow ;  Miss  Barlow 
looked  so  thundering  cross." 

"  Well,  did  you  see  Mrs.  Seward  before  break- 
fast?" 

"No;  Mrs.  Seward  didn't  come  down  till  we 
were  all  at  the  table,  and  went  up  before  we  had 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


171 


finished,  and  poor  Julia  couldn't  eat  a  bit  of  break- 
fast.   I  didn't  think  she  cared  so  much  about  Louie. 
/  don't  care  a  great  deal  what  the  matter  with  her 
is,  except  that  Julia  cares." 
"  "Well,  did  you  find  out  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,  but  then  a  good  deal.  I've  been 
waiting  outside  the  Nursery  door  ever  since  break- 
fast, for  Mrs.  Seward  to  come  out,  and  though  I 
heard  her  voice,  very  low,  and  the  doctor's  inside 
for  ever  so  long,  she  didn't  open  the  door  till  about 
ten  minutes  ago.  Then  she  came  out  to  call  a 
servant.  She  had  a  glass  and  a  spoon  in  her  hand, 
and  she  seemed  to  be  in  great  hurry,  for  when  I 
spoke  to  her  she  didn't  answer,  and  generally,  you 
know,  she  is  so  good  to  me  !  So  I  waited  till  she'd 
given  her  order,  and  then  I  pulled  her  dress  a  little, 
and  asked  her  if  she'd  please  tell  me  if  Louie  Atter- 
bury  was  sick." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  Tes,  very  sick,  I  am  afraid,  my  child,"  she  said ; 
and  then  she  was  going  away,  but  I  kept  hold  of 
her  dress,  and  begged  her  to  tell  me  about  it,  for 
Julia  was  so  unhappy.  And  then  she  stopped,  and 
put  her  arm  around  me,  and  said  she  remembered 
Julia  and  Louie  were  great  friends,  and  that  I  must 
tell  Julia  not  to  be  uneasy,  she  hoped  it  would  not 
be  very  serious,  but  that  Louie  had  been  very  ill  in 


172 


louie's  last  term. 


the  night.  Miss  Barlow  had  come  to  her  room  and 
waked  her  in  a  great  fright,  for  Louie  was  in  a  high 
fever,  and  talked  so  wildly.  Don't  you  wonder  we 
all  slept  through  it  ?  But  then  it  takes  a  good  deal 
to  wake  girls,  Mrs.  Seward  says." 
"  Well?" 

'  Then  Mrs.  Seward  brought  Louie  into  the  nur- 
sery, and  they  watched  by  her  all  night,  and  as 
soon  as  it  was  daylight,  they  sent  for  the  doctor. 
She's  quieter  now,  but  she's  out  of  her  head  yet. 
I  heard  her  talking  after  Mrs.  Seward  went  in,  and 
Mrs.  Seward  said  '  poor  child!'  and  tried  to  coax 
her  to  lie  still  and  go  to  sleep.  Mrs.  Seward  said  I 
might  come  up  again  at  the  noon  recess,  and  she'd 
tell  me  how  she  was  by  that  time." 

"That's  all  you've  got  to  tell  Julia,  then?" 

"  No,"  said  Alice,  dropping  her  voice  a  little. 
"There's  something  else.  I  didn't  come  right 
down,  I  waited  a  minute  outside  the  door.  I 
thought  I  heard  somebody  talking,  and  that  perhaps 
it  was  Louie — but  it  wasn't." 

"Who?" 

"  I  wasn't  listening  exactly — you  know — I  didn't 
mean  to — that  is  "  

"  Of  course,  I  understand.  It  was  all  right.  Go  on." 

"  Miss  Stanton  was  there,  and  she  and  Mrs.  Sew- 
ard were  talking  about  Louie.    They  said  ever  so 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


173 


much  that  I  couldn't  understand,  then  Miss  Stanton 
moved  nearer  to  the  door  and  I  heard  better. 
There's  been  a  great  fuss,  I  should  think  from  what 
they  said,  and  Louie  has  been  doing  something 
dreadful.  Mrs.  Seward  said,  she  couldn't  have 
believed  it  of  her,  and  so  did  Miss  Stanton.  And 
they  said  Mr.  Rogers  thought  she  ought  to  be 
expelled,  and  Miss  Barlow  had  said  she  should 
resign  her  place  if  she  was  not,  and  Miss  Stanton 
did  not  really  know  what  ought  to  be  done.  Miss 
Barlow  had  been  so  very  much  tried  with  her,  and 
it  ruined  her  authority  with  the  others  so  entirely 
to  have  such  continual  contests  with  her,  that  she 
could  not  blame  her  exactly  for  the  position  she 
had  taken.  She  wished  very  much  it  had  not 
occurred.  It  placed  them  all  so  uncomfortably. 
There  was  no  turning  Miss  Barlow ;  she  had  said  it, 
and  she  would  not  retract,  and  Mr.  Rogers  was  dis- 
posed to  think  she  was  not  altogether  unreason- 
able. But  strangest  of  all — and  here  they  talked 
so  low  I  couldn't  catch  much — but  it  was  pretty 
near  like  this — that  the  Bishop  took  Louie's  part, 
and  would  not  say  that  he  believed  her  guilty,  that 
all  the  evidence  could  not  convince  him,  and  that 
he  had  said  she  should  not  be  punished  yet.  And 
altogether,  it  was  likely  to  make  a  great  row 
among  the  teachers  before  it  was  all  over." 


louie's  last  term. 


"But  tell  me,  Alice,"  said  Adelaide,  eagerly, 
"  didn't  you  hear  anything  about  what  she'd  done  ! 
Couldn't  you  get  any  idea  of  what  it  was  ?" 

"  It  was  something  about  a  book — a  novel — and 
then  she'd  told  a  story,  a  very  bad  one — about 
something,  and  been  dreadfully  bad  to  Miss 
Barlow." 

"  Ah !"  and  Adelaide's  lips  parted  in  a  hateful 
smile  of  satisfaction.  "  They  found  she'd  been  read- 
ing novels,  then  ?  What  did  they  say — how  did 
they  find  out?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  couldn't  get  that.  Only  I 
know  as  soon  as  Louie  is  well  enough  they're  going 
to  have  it  all  up  before  the  school,  and  the  Bishop 
is  going  to  examine  all  about  it ;  and  there  is  a  girl, 
they  didn't  say  who,  that  Miss  Barlow  says  will 
be  able  to  throw  a  great  deal  of  light  upon  the  sub- 
ject." 

"  They  didn't  say  what  her  name  was  ?" 

"  No  ;  Miss  Barlow  had  said,  though,  that  her 
testimony  would  settle  it  all,  that  she  was  a  girl 
who  stood  very  well  in  the  school,  and  whose  word 
would  go  for  a  good  deal.  I  wonder  who  it  can  be  ? 
— I  hope  it  isn't  Julia." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it  is.  But  I  want  to  tell 
you  one  thing,  Alice  ;  you'd  better  not  say  anything 
to  Julia  about  this  listening  business.     I  know 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


175 


she'd  be  very  angry  with  you  for  doing  it,  and  as 
likely  as  not  think  it  was  her  duty  to  report  you. 
Now  I  don't  feel  so  about  it,  I'm  not  so  strict,  you 
know.  I  think  it  was  very  natural  for  you  to  do  it, 
and  I  don't  blame  you  the  least  in  the  world. 
Little  girls  will  do  such  things.  But  Julia  would 
think  it  was  horrible,  she  would  think  you  were 
disgraced  forever,  and  would  make  a  dreadful  row 
about  it.  So,  if  you  take  my  advice,  you'll  keep 
perfectly  quiet.  Just  tell  her  what  Mrs.  Seward 
said,  and  then  say  you  were  running  down  to  tell 
her  when  I  stopped  you  to  do  an  errand  for  me, 
and  then' made  you  sit  down  and  eat  some  dough- 
balls,  and  you  forgot." 

"But,"  stammered  Alice,  dropping  her  dough- 
balls,  and  looking  wretchedly  frightened,  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  do  anything  bad.  I'll  tell  Julia  I  didn't 
mean  to ;  she  will  understand ;  she  won't  be 
angry." 

"She  will  be  angry;  she  said  the  other  night, 
listening  seemed  to  her  as  bad  as  stealing.  You're 
a  goose  if  you  tell  her — a  regular  goose.  There, 
don't  begin  to  cry ;  nobody  knows  it  but  me,  and  / 
won't  tell.  Pshaw!  it's  nothing,  except  to  such 
'  highfalutin '  girls  as  Julia.  I  tell  you,  there's  no 
harm  done.    I'm  the  only  one  that  knows." 

"  Oh !"  cried  Alice,  in  an  agony,  "  there's  Julia 


176 


louie's  last  term. 


waving  her  handkerchief  to  me  to  come.  What 
shall  I  do  !    Oh,  I  am  so  afraid !" 

"Nonsense;  pretend  you  don't  see  her  for  a 
minute,  till  you  get  the  tears  wiped  off  your  cheeks. 
Now,  don't  look  so  scared.  Go  right  up,  and  tell 
her  all  about  Mrs.  Seward's  message,  and  just  hold 
your  tongue  about  the  rest.  That's  all  you've  got 
to  do.    I'm  sure  it's  simple  enough." 

"Oh,  if  the  bell  would  only  ring!"  groaned 
Alice. 

"  Well,  it  will  if  you  wait  a  few  minutes.  Don't 
look  that  way ;  look  into  the  house.  Tell  me,  was 
there  anything  more  you  can  remember  of  what 
they  said?" 

"  No — oh,  no !"  said  Alice,  miserably.  "  I 
only  wish  I  hadn't  heard  anything.  I  never 
thought "  

"  Just  keep  it  to  yourself,  that's  all.  And  if  you 
hear  anything  more  about  it  from  anybody,  be  sure 
you  come  straight  to  me  and  tell  me ;  do  you  hear  ? 
Then  I'll  keep  your  secret  for  you.  I  won't  let 
Julia  or  Laura  find  out  that  you've  been  eaves- 
dropping, as  long  as  you  tell  me  everything  you 
hear  about  Louie,  and  don't  tell  anybody  else. 
You  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Alice  returned,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Now  go ;  and  here  are  the  rest  of  the  dough- 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


177 


balls  for  you.  Wrap  'em  up  in  this  paper.  There, 
put  'em  in  your  pocket,  and  go  to  Julia." 

Alice  put  the  package  into  her  pocket  with  a 
strange  realization,  poor  little  sinner !  of  the  insuffi- 
ciency of  wealth  to  allay  the  stings  of  conscience  or 
the  fears  of  guilt.  She  crept  down  the  steps  and 
across  the  paved  court  into  the  open  ground  be- 
yond, with  a  step  the  very  reverse  of  the  one  with 
which  she  generally  ran  to  meet  her  dearest  Julia. 

Her  dearest  Julia,  now  the  most  wretched  of 
Julias,  had  been  watching  her  with  an  impatience 
that  threatened  at  last  to  get  beyond  her  control. 
She  had  pulled  to  fragments  the  delicate  apple- 
blossoms  that  the  wind  had  shaken  into  her  lap, 
then,  pushing  them  away,  had  bent  with  resolution 
over  her  book,  and  tried  to  keep  her  wandering 
eyes  upon  it. 

"  Oh,  if  she  wTould  only  come  !"  was  the  sole  idea 
she  found  in  her  mind  after  she  had  read  twice 
through  the  entire  reign  of  Henry  IY. 

But  when  at  last  she  saw  a  curly  little  head  ap- 
pear at  the  door  of  the  hall,  and  watched  its  arrest 
and  detention  by  Adelaide  McFarlane,  and  waited 
in  vain  for  its  release,  she  had  need  of  all  the 
patience  she  had  ever  learned.  A  dozen  times 
she  started  forward  to  call  Alice  to  her ;  but  she 
had  resolved  she  would  wait  there  for  her,  and  not 


178 


louie's  last  teem. 


stir  till  she  came,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  heroism 
about  Julia  that  made  it  the  most  natural  and 
characteristic  thing  she  could  do,  to  wait  with  out- 
ward quietness  and  suffer  inward  torture  rather 
than  break  the  shadow  of  a  resolution.  She  waved 
her  handkerchief  to  the  little  loiterer  as  a  sign  she 
waited  for  her;  that  unnoticed,  she  took  up  her 
book  and  read  unflinchingly  on.  She  did  not 
even  turn  her  head  when  she  heard  Alice's  little 
feet  slowly  and  harassingly  brushing  through  the 
long  grass  ;  she  only  raised  her  eyes  as  she  stopped 
in  front  of  her,  and  said  quietly : 
"Well?" 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  been  so  long,  Julia,"  Alice 
began. 

u  Oh,  no  matter  for  that.  Did  you  see  Mrs. 
Seward?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  Mrs.  Seward,  and  I  was  coming 
right  down  to  tell  you  only — only  "  

"  Only  Addy  stopped  you.  I  know,  dear.  "What 
did  Mrs.  Seward  say?  Sit  down,  if  you're  tired, 
and  tell  me  quietly  all  you've  heard  of  Louie." 

"Why,  I've  seen  Mrs.  Seward;  I  had  to  wait 
ever  so  long,  and  she  says  Louie  was  very  ill  last 
night,  very  ill,  indeed  "  

"  I  knew  that  by  her  face,"  Julia  said,  involun- 
tarily.   "  Go  on." 


CORRUPTION  AND  BRIBERY. 


179 


"  Well,  Miss  Barlow  took  her  to  the  nursery,  and 
she's  there  now,  and  is  a  little  more  quiet,  and  Mrs. 
Seward  says  you  mustn't  be  worried,  and  I  am  to  go 
at  noon  to  hear  again." 

"But  what  does  the  doctor  say?  Does  Mrs. 
Seward  seem  uneasy  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Alice,  stupidly.  "  That's 
all  she  told  me  to  tell  you." 

"I  suppose  nobody  can  see  her.  I  suppose 
there's  no  chance  they'd  let  me  in  "  

"  I  don't  know,"  Alice  said  again,  her  eyes  wan- 
dering absently  around. 

"Didn't  you  hear  anything  else,  Ally?  Didn't 
Mrs.  Seward  say  anything  about  her  symptoms? 
Has  she  fever  ?" 

"Why,  Julia,  how  should  I  know?"  cried  Alice, 
a  little  fretfully.  u  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  anything 
about  her  symptoms.  She's  sick,  that's  all  I  can 
tell  you." 

Julia  sighed  as  Alice  turned  her  head  restlessly 
away,  exclaiming  as  she  caught  sight  of  a  group  of 
girls  some  distance  off : 

"  Oh,  there's  Eva  Leonard  beckoning  to  me  to 
come  play  tag.    May  I  go,  Julia  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  you  may  go,"  said  Julia,  sadly  ; 
and  the  little  girl  bounded  off,  only  too  glad  to 


180 


louie's  last  term. 


escape  the  dangerous  ground  on  which  Julia 
threatened  to  tread. 

"How  careless  and  trifling  Alice  is  growing!" 
thought  Julia. 

"How  strict  and  cold  Julia  is!"  thought  Alice, 
rushing  into  Eva  Leonard's  arms. 

The  wedge  had  a  very  fine  point,  to  be  sure — 
quite  invisible  to  the  naked  eye ;  but  in  this  hitherto 
firm  friendship  it  had  been  inserted,  and  one  or  two 
skillful  blows  were  only  needed  to  make  the  separa- 
tion it  would  inevitably  effect  apparent  to  the  par- 
ties in  the  friendship,  and  the  parties  who  looked  on. 


CHAPTEE  XII. 


TAG. 

"  A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild ; 
As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child.'' 

Tennyson. 

The  boisterous  game  in  which  little  Alice  was 
trying  to  drown  her  remorse,  soon  led  the  partici- 
pators in  it  to  the  extreme  limits  of  the  playground. 
Eva  Leonard  was  "  it,"  and  being  the  best  runner 
in  the  school,  was  giving  the  flock  of  girls  before 
her  pretty  good  work  to  keep  out  of  her  reach.  They 
had  considerably  the  "  head  start "  or  they  would 
not  have  had  the  smallest  chance ;  as  it  was,  one 
after  another  reached  "  goal "  and  clung  panting  to 
it,  without  evincing  the  least  disposition  to  try  the 
fortunes  of  war  again ;  only  Susie  McAllister,  her 
face  unspeakably  red,  stood  about  a  hundred  yards 
from  safety,  fluctuating  between  hope  and  fear, 
making  frantic  attempts  to  cross,  and  rushing 
breathless  back,  as  Eva's  movements  indicated  that 

181 


182 


louie's  last  term. 


she  meant  to  give  cliase.  There  is  no  determining 
the  length  of  time  this  exciting  little  contest  con- 
sumed, and  no  measuring  the  amusement  nor  the 
interest  it  aroused ;  it  might  have  been  indefinitely 
prolonged  if  Alice  Aulay,  the  catspaw-in-general  to 
the  school,  had  not,  at  a  sign  from  Susie,  made  a 
feint  of  leaving  her  place,  and  drawn  off  Eva's  at- 
tention, under  cover  of  which  Susie  ran  desperately 
across  the  ground,  and  touched  "goal"  with  a 
shrill,  triumphant  shriek. 

Alice  was  too  little  to  be  "  it,"  so,  after  giving 
her  a  very  provoked  shake,  Eva  released  her  and 
returned  to  the  charge,  in  not  the  sweetest  frame 
of  mind,  it  must  be  confessed.  Her  temper 
was  doomed  to  a  further  trial,  however,  for  Sue 
McAllister,  though  she  did  grow  very  red  in  the 
face,  and  did  not  get  over  the  ground  with  the  same 
light  grace  that  distinguished  her  opponent,  made 
pretty  good  time  notwithstanding,  and  husbanded 
her  strength,  and  managed  some  very  judicious 
moves.  The  girls  laughed  provokingly  as  Eva 
again  failed  in  her  attempts  upon  Sue,  and  they 
gained  courage  themselves  to  make  little  sorties 
that  were  inexpressibly  exasperating  to  her,  as  in 
every  case  where  she  was  unsuccessful,  they  thought 
themselves  called  upon  to  laugh  more  than  they 
did  the  time  before. 


TAG. 


183 


Eva  felt  that  her  reputation  was  at  stake;  she 
had  been  "  it "  much  too  long,  somebody  must  be 
caught;  so  she  watched  her  chance,  and  darted 
suddenly  and  violently  upon  Georgy  Reynolds,  and 
made  a  grab  at  her  frock ;  but  Georgy,  slight  and 
graceful  as  a  fairy,  sprung  out  of  the  way,  and  fled 
laughing  across  the  lawn,  while  Eva,  too  precipi- 
tate to  be  prudent,  turned  fiercely  in  pursuit. 

In  and  out  among  the  trees,  along  the  paths, 
across  the  lawn,  with  the  eyes  of  all  upon  them,  the 
pursued  and  the  pursuer  flew,  Georgy  light,  and 
laughing,  and  fresh,  Eva  fagged,  and  hot,  and 
angry.  The  timerserving  little  crew  of  lookers-on 
clapped  their  hands  and  shouted :  "  That's  it, 
Georgy!"  as  the  two  neared  the  goal  again. 
They  had  always  before  this  staked  their  faith,  if 
not  their  money,  on  Eva,  but  Eva  was  evidently 
out  of  luck  to-day,  and  so,  like  bigger  children,  they 
veered  around,  and  lavished  their  favor  and  encou- 
ragement on  the  winning  horse. 

Perfectly  exasperated  by  all  this,  as  Georgy 
stretched  out  her  hand,  within  three  feet  of  the  goal, 
Eva  made  a  sudden  and  desperate  spring,  clutched 
at  Georgy,  and  would  have  seized  her  if  that  young 
athlete,  grasping  the  pole,  had  not  swung  herself 
around  it  and  landed  herself  safely  on  the  other 
side,  while  her   antagonist,  disappointed  of  her 


184 


louie's  last  term. 


mark,  missed  lier  footing  and  fell  violently  forward. 
In  the  melee  that  followed,  there  was  a  great  con- 
fusion of  condolence  and  ridicule,  while  Eva  re- 
gained her  feet  and  shook  the  dust  from  her  dress. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  somebody  asked,  as  she  rubbed 
off  the  gravel  from  her  scratched  and  smarting 
hands. 

"  Hurt !  I'm  not  a  baby  !"  she  cried,  bravely. 
"Don't  stand  around  me  unless  you  want  to  be 
caught." 

"  Oh,  you're  worn  out.  You  can't  catch  any- 
body." 

"  You'll  see  if  I  can't !" 

And  clearing  the  goal,  she  sent  flying  before  her 
two  or  three  girls  who  had  unguardedly  and  idly 
been  looking  on.  They  kept  pretty  close  together, 
and  she  drove  them  down  the  path,  gaining  upon 
them  very  visibly;  but  just  before  she  reached 
them,  again  her  foot  slipped,  and  she  fell  at  full 
length  on  the  gravel.  Gravel  isn't  a  pleasant  thing 
to  fall  on  at  any  time,  but  least  of  all,  when  the 
palms,  that  take  the  worst  of  it,  are  scratched  and 
bleeding  from  a  previous  encounter;  and  Eva, 
crazy  with  the  pain  no  less  than  with  the  mortifica- 
tion, started  up,  her  southern  blood  all  in  a  flame, 
and  sprung  upon  the  first  person  she  could  grasp. 

"  You're  it,"  she  cried.    "  Come  along." 


TAG. 


185 


"  No,"  protested  the  captive.    "  Let  me  go." 

"  I  won't.    It's  fair.    You're  it." 

"Yes,"  cried  the  girls,  crowding  round.  "She 
caught  you,  you've  got  to  be  it." 

"  But  I'm  not  playing,"  the  girl  said,  earnestly. 

"  Oh,  that's  very  fine  to  say  now  you're  caught ; 
but  it  won't  do.  You  shall  take  your  turn.  Come, 
I  say." 

"Don't — please  don't,"  Frances  said,  shrinking 
back.  "  I  never  played  ;  I  can't.  I  was  walking 
up  and  down  studying ;  I  didn't  see  you  coming. 
Let  me  go,  if  you  please." 

"  That  I  won't,"  muttered  Eva,  holding  the  slight 
wrist  of  the  new-comer  in  a  very  tight  grasp  as  she 
started  forward.  "  You'd  no  business  to  get  in  my 
way  if  you  didn't  mean  to  play.  You  knew  that 
was  our  ground." 

"  Oh,  Eva,  let  the  girl  go  if  she  wants  to,"  said 
Georgy  Reynolds.    "  Don't  bully." 

Eva  snapped  a  very  sharp  look  at  the  speaker  out 
of  her  "  double  action  "  eyes,  and  didn't  answer, 
but  dragged  her  prisoner  on  with  much  increased 
decision  of  manner. 

"  Why,"  cried  Eliza  Evarts,  a  lazy  West  Indian 
of  some  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  weight,  who  had 
never  run  a  race  or  played  a  game  in  her  life,  but 
who  always  hovered  on  the  outskirts  of  the  play- 


186 


louie's  last  term. 


ground,  lolling  around  the  goal,  and  watching  her 
companions  with  interest ;  "  why,  she's  a  good-for- 
nothing,  moping,  little  baggage,  anyhow.  It'll  be 
a  charity  to  wake  her  up.    Make  her  try  it,  I  say." 

"  Lo !  the  poor  Indian !"  cried  Addy  McFarlane, 
joining  the  group,  quite  unable  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  having  a  finger  in  such  a  promising  pie. 
"  Make  the  poor  Indian  try  it,  Zsay." 

"  She'd  founder  a  hundred  yards  from  shore," 
laughed  Georgy. 

"She'd  go  down  within  sight  of  land,"  said 
another. 

"  We'll  try  this  slim  little  craft  then  this  heat," 
Addy  said,  laying  her  hand  on  Frances'  shoulder 
and  leading  her  forward.  "  We'll  let  the  poor  In- 
dian off  this  time  if  she'll  promise  not  to  cabbage 
more  than  her  pocket  full  of  crackers  at  noon  "  

"Take  care,"  said  Eliza,  "/only  do  a  retail 
business." 

"  Come !"  cried  Addy,  letting  the  suggestion  pass 
unnoticed,  and  smothering  it  in  an  excessive  zeal 
for  the  continuance  of  the  game.  "  Why  don't  you 
start,  girls  ?    Pale-face  is  waiting." 

They  were  by  this  time  in  the  middle  of  the  lawn, 
halfway  between  the  house  and  the  goal.  The 
girls,  eager  for  the  game,  and  specially  interested 
now  that  it  had  a  spice  of  malice  in  it,  ranged  them- 


TAG. 


187 


selves  for  a  start,  and  waited  only  for  Adelaide  to 
give  the  signal.  Eva  took  a  good  position  herself, 
determined  this  time  not  to  be  outdone ;  Adelaide 
held  Frances  by  the  arm  several  yards  oft',  then 
crying : 

"  One,  two,  three!"  dropped  the  arm  and  dashed 
forward  after  her  flying  comrades. 

It  was  not  till  the  foremost  one  was  halfway  to 
the  goal,  that  they  were  brought  to  a  sudden  stand- 
still by  Addy's  exclamation : 

"  Heigho  !  She  hasn't  started !  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  the  girl  ?" 

They  paused  in  mid-career,  and  turned  amazed. 
Addy  went  back  a  few  steps  and  the  others  fol- 
lowed her,  till  they  closed  around  the  object  of 
their  amazement  and  indignation. 

For  a  second,  no  one  spoke.  She  looked  so  white 
and  frightened,  with  her  head  drooping  and  her 
fingers  laced  nervously  together,  that  they  stood 
silenced  about  her,  till  Addy  broke  the  charm. 
Whatever  pity  they  had  begun  to  feel  for  their 
timid  captive,  vanished  at  the  first  sound  of  Ade- 
laide's sneering  voice. 

It  makes  one  blush  to  think  what  a  single  daring 
girl  can  do  with  a  crowd  of  better  comrades.  Girls 
who  -  would  shrink  from  doing  an  ungentle  or 
ungenerous  act  individually,  will,  under  the  stimu- 


1S8 


louie's  last  term. 


lus  of  excitement,  and  from  the  contagion  of  a  bad 
example,  follow  an  unprincipled  leader  to  incredi- 
ble lengths  of  unkindness  and  cruelty.  They  will 
do  in  a  body  what  they  would  never  dream  of 
doing  by  themselves.  They  will  persecute  misera- 
ble teachers,  torture  homesick  girls,  resist  rules, 
dare  punishments,  that  as  individuals  they  would 
quake  to  think  of.  Perhaps  there  was  no  girl  of 
all  that  group,  with  the  exception  of  Adelaide  her- 
self, who  would  have  looked  with  anything  like 
rudeness  or  unkindness  on  Frances,  from  the 
impulses  of  her  own  heart ;  none  who  would  not 
have  been  moved  to  pity  by  the  sight  of  her  help- 
lessness and  unhappiness.  But  led  by  the  laugh  of 
contempt  on  Adelaide's  face,  and  her  confident  tone 
of  assurance,  one  followed  another  in  joining  with 
her,  and  when  poor  little  Frances  raised  her  eyes, 
it  was  to  rest  them  on  a  semi-circle  of  unsympa- 
thetic faces,  some  laughing,  some  sneering,  all  curi- 
ous and  cold. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  leading  us  such  a 
dance  ?"  demanded  Adelaide.  "  Ar'nt  you  ashamed 
of  yourself  for  treating  your  betters  so?  You 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  wTe'd  let  you  play  with  us 
at  all.  It  was  a  great  deal  more  than  you  deserved, 
mean-spirited  little  thing  as  you  are.  You  may 
depend  upon  it,  you'll  never  get  another  chance." 


TAG. 


189 


"  It  strikes  me  it  won't  be  much  of  a  loss,  Addy, 
if  it's  such  a  chance  as  she's  just  had,"  said  Georgy, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  it  wasn't  a  very  high  compli- 
ment," Addy  returned,  echoing  the  laugh.  "  But 
it  is  the  nearest  approach  to  one  she's  ever  received 
within  my  knowledge,  and  she  ought  to  have  been 
grateful.  Come,  what  have  you  got  to  say  for 
yourself,  pale-face?  Don't  stand  there  so  stupid. 
Tell  me  why  you  didn't  run ;  speak,  quick." 

But  Frances  did  not  speak,  neither  did  she  raise 
her  head  again,  and  after  a  moment's  impatient 
pause,  some  one  exclaimed : 

"  "What's  to  be  done  ?  The  pretty  darling  wants 
to  be  coaxed — she  wants  a  sugar-plum  and  a 
rattle." 

"  She  can't  run  alone  yet !"  cried  another. 
"  Poor  little  Toddlekins  !" 

"  What  was  it  its  last  birthday,  dear  ?" 
"  Where's  nursey  ?" 
"  Does  its  mother  know  it's  out  ?" 
"  Is  it  happy  in  its  mind  ?" 

And  a  shower  of  similar  scintillations  of  school- 
girl sarcasm,  the  scorching  sting  of  which,  none  but 
a  school-girl  can  understand.  Indeed,  if  they  had 
uttered  the  most  innocent  and  inoffensive  combina- 
tion of  words  of  which  the  language  is  capable,  they 


190 


j,ouie's  last  term. 


could  not  have  failed  to  wound,  so  apparent  was 
the  spirit  that  actuated  them,  and  so  unmistakable 
was  the  attitude  of  antagonism  they  assumed.  And 
every  word  was  a  dagger  to  the  poor  child,  used  to 
so  few  words  of  any  kind  from  them,  shy  of  the 
most  commonplace  encounter  with  them,  startled 
at  even  an  offended  look,  sensitive  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  comprehension  among  them.  To  be 
standing  so  before  them,  the  object  of  all  eyes, 
would  have  been  misery  to  her,  if  she  had  been  an 
object  of  praise  and  congratulation  ;  but  to  be  stand- 
ing before  them,  at  once  the  centre  of  aversion  and 
ridicule,  was  such  unutterable  torture  that  I  cannot 
hope  to  make  you  understand  it,  if  you  do  not  un- 
derstand her,  if  you  have  not  in  your  memory 
some  one  resembling  her.  Or  recall  all  the  shyness 
and  sensitiveness  of  which  your  own  childhood  bore 
the  stamp,  and  multiply  it  by  ten,  and  it  may 
help  you  to  imagine  what  the  pain  was,  that  those 
thoughtless  taunts  inflicted  on  the  exquisitely  sensi- 
tive ears  on  which  they  fell. 

"  Come,  i  we  pause  for  a  reply,' "  cried  the 
doughty  leader.  u  We  shall  not  let  you  go  till  you 
apologize  and  explain.  Quick  !  Tell  us  why  you 
didn't  run." 

"  Make  her  tell  you !"  said  Eliza  Evarts,  throw- 
ing herself  down  on  a  bench  close  by,  and  leaning 


TAG. 


191 


her  elbows  on  her  knees.  "Don't  let  the  little 
monkey  off.    She's  too  obstinate  for  anything." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to,  you  may  be  sure,"  Addy 
cried,  grasping  Frances  by  the  wrist.  "She  shall 
apologize.  She  has  insulted  us  all,  and  we'd  be  as 
mean-spirited  as  she  is  herself,  if" we  let  her  off." 

That  wTas  a  light  in  which  they  had  none  of  them 
viewed  the  subject  previously,  but  since  Addy 
seemed  to  find  it  so  clear  and  unmistakable,  they 
yielded  to  her  convictions,  and  began  to  think  she 
was  in  the  right  decidedly,  and  they  had  been 
insulted  and  put  upon  by  a  self-willed,  ill-natured 
girl,  who  ought  to  have  been  glad  to  have  played 
with  them  on  any  terms.  Only  Georgy  Reynolds 
dissented,  and  ran  off  laughing,  saying,  it  struck  her 
"  that  the  boot  was  on  the  other  leg."  Georgy  was 
too  old,  and  held  herself  too  high,  to  take  much 
interest  in  such  a  petty  squabble  as  this.  She  had 
to  air  her  spirits  occasionally  by  a  romp  with  her 
juniors,  but  the  romp  over,  she  always  dropped 
them  very  quickly,  and  returned  industriously  to 
graver  pursuits,  quite  ignoring  any  further  interest 
in  or  responsibility  about  those  she  had  been 
-   amusing  herself  with  for  the  hour. 

"  The  bell  '11  ring  in  a  minute,"  cried  some  one 
in  the  group. 

"  Yes,"  Addy  said,  "  and  if  you  don't  want  to  be 


192 


louie's  last  term. 


carried  straight  to  Miss  Stanton,  and  complained 
of  for  making  a  disturbance  in  the  play-ground, 
you'd  better  speak  and  say  you're  ashamed  of  your- 
self, and  ask  our  pardon." 

"  I  don't  believe  she's  a  bit  ashamed.  She  don't 
look  so." 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you.   She's  such  a  little  saint,  per- 
haps she  thinks  it's  wicked  to  play  tug." 
"Do  you,  sweetheart?" 

"Yes! — Yes!  She  puts  down  her  head.  She 
means  yes." 

"  Ah !  that's  it,  is  it?"  cried  Addy.  "She  affects 
the  pious,  does  she  ?  She  don't  take  after  that  pre- 
cious sister  of  hers,  then,  if  I  remember  right." 

"Leave  me  alone — let  go  my  hand,"  escaped 
Frances'  lips  in  a  low,  agonized  voice,  as  she  made 
a  sudden  struggle  to  get  free. 

"  What  a  temper  the  little  vixen  has !"  cried 
Addy,  grasping,  with  all  her  might,  and  even  then 
hardly  retaining,  the  slender  wrist  that  till  that 
moment  had  lain  quite  passive  in  her  hold.  "  No, 
I  shan't  let  you  go  till  you  beg  pardon  of  us  all. 
You  shan't  stir  till  you  tell  us  you're  ashamed."  • 

A  crimson  flush  had  started  to  the  girl's  face, 
and  her  eyes  had  a  hunted,  desperate  look  as  she 
raised  them  for  an  instant  to  her  persecutors  ;  then 
averting  them  as  if  she  could  not  bear  the  blaze  of 


TAG. 


193 


contempt  they  met,  she  made  a  sudden  spring  to 
break  away,  uttered  a  sharp  cry  of  pain  as  the  wrist 
was  twisted  violently  in  Adelaide's  unrelenting 
hand,  and  fell,  white  and  fainting,  at  her  feet. 

"  Good  heavens !  what  have  I  done !"  Adelaide 
exclaimed  involuntarily,  turning  pale  as  she  stooped 
over  the  senseless,  prostrate  figure. 

There  was  a  sudden  hush  among  the  girls  and  a 
frightened  look  on  every  face  as  they  crowded 
closer  round  her. 

"  She's  fainted  dead  away.  You  must  have  dis- 
located her  wrist.    Oh,  Adelaide  !" 

""What  shall  I  do!"  and  Adelaide  put  her  hand 
to  her  head  with  a  look  of  alarm  and  indecision. 

"  How  awfully  she  looks !"  whispered  Alice,  hid- 
ing her  face  and  beginning  to  cry.  "  Oh,  will  she 
die?" 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Ade- 
laide," said  some  one.  "  You  are  so  rough ;  you 
may  have  killed  her." 

"  Poor  girl,"  murmured  one,  too  late  repentant ; 
and  in  an  instant,  the  contagion  of  pity  spread. 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  Eva  cried,  starting 
forward.  "  Somebody  rub  her  hands,  and  Conny, 
go  as  fast  as  you  can  to  the  kitchen  for  some  water, 
while  I  run  for  Mrs.  Seward." 

"You  shan't  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  cried 

9 


19± 


louie's  last  term. 


Adelaide,  springing  after  her,  recovering  her  self- 
possession.  "  You  shan't  bring  Mrs.  Seward  here 
till  I  tell  you.  Go  for  the  water,  Constance.  The 
girl's  only  fainted;  she'll  come  to  in  a  second. 
And  let  me  tell  you,  once  for  all,  it's  no  more  my 
fault  than  it  is  yours,  and  if  you  tell  Mrs.  Seward 
so,  you'll  every  one  of  you  find  reason  to  wish  you 
hadn't,  before  the  week  is  over." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  how  it's  anybody's  fault  but 
yours,"  Eliza  Evarts  said. 

"  You've  all  been  bullying  and  teasing  her,  every 
one  here,  and  you  know  it  perfectly  well.  I 
haven't  said  anything  more  than  any  one  else  "  • 

"Yes,  but  you've  done  more — you've  sprained 
her  wrist." 

"  I  haven't,  'twas  her  own  doing ;  she  wrenched 
her  hand  away  so  quick ;  how  could  I  know  what 
she  was  about  ?" 

"Settle  that  among  yourselves,"  cried  Eva, 
breaking  away  from  her.  "I'm  going  for  Mrs. 
Seward." 

And  before  Adelaide  could  answer,  she  was  half- 
way across  the  lawn  toward  the  house.  Meanwhile, 
the  frightened  girls  knelt  around  their  companion 
with  momentarily  increasing  alarm.  She  did  not 
come  to  in  the  least,  or  show  the  smallest  sign  of 
returning  consciousness,  for  all  their  efforts.  They 


TAG. 


195 


chafed  her  hands  and  feet,  and  poured  the  water 
that  Constance  came  running  back  with,  on  her 
temples,  but  she  lay  as  white  and  still  as  marble. 
There  was  hardly  a  word  spoken ;  they  were  too 
miserable  and  penitent  now  to  quarrel  and  accuse 
each  other,  and  even  Adelaide  moved  aside  with  a 
feeling  of  relief  to  make  way  for  Mrs.  Seward,  who 
came  hurrying  toward  them,  accompanied  by  Eva. 

"  What  is  all  this  ?"  she  cried,  stooping  down  and 
touching  Frances'  pulse.  "  Fainted  quite  away ! 
My  poor  little  girl !" 

And  without  a  moment's  indecision,  lifting  the 
light  burden  in  her  arms,  she  laid  the  death-like 
face  gently  against  her  shoulder,  and  hurried  to- 
ward the  house. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


FRANCES. 

"  Heaven  is  of  souls  the  native  sphere, 
0  heaven-horn  sonl,  live  stranger  here." 

Bishop  Ken. 

"  Laura,  wait  for  me  a  minute ;  the  bell  hasn't 
stopped  yet,"  said  Julia,  uneasily,  lingering  by  the 
foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?"  and  Laura  paused. 
"  I  always  like  to  be  early  at  the  noon-service,  it's 
so  short." 

"  Tes,  I  know — so  do  I,"  she  returned,  making  a 
movement  to  go,  but  loitering  and  looking  wistfully 
up  the  stairs.  "I've  been  hoping  Mrs.  Seward 
would  come  out.  I  don't  like  to  knock  at  the 
nursery  door  for  fear  of  disturbing  Louie,  but  I'd 
give  anything  to  know  how  she  is." 

"Maybe  Miss  Stanton  will  be  in  Chapel,  and 
she'll  be  sure  to  know;  or  any  of  the  teachers  will 
go  up  and  inquire  for  you  if  you  ask  them,  or  give 
you  permission  to  go  in." 

196 


FRANCES. 


197 


"  Very  well ;"  and  as  the  bell  stopped,  the  two 
friends  walked  slowly  away. 

At  this  moment,  they  heard  the  nursery  door 
open,  and  Julia  started  and  looked  back.  But  it 
was  only  Frances  Chenilworth,  who  with  a  slow  and 
languid  step  descended  the  stairs,  and  crossed  the 
hall  toward  the  passage  that  led  to  the  Chapel. 
Her  arm  was  in  a  sling,  and  she  looked  white  and 
ill.  Laura  and  Julia  paused  to  wait  for  her,  and 
the  former  said,  as  she  approached  them : 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  well  enough  to  come 
down,  Frances.  I  am  so  sorry  to  hear  you've  hurt 
your  wrist  so  badly." 

" Thank  you,"  and  Frances  flushed  faintly.  "I 
am  better ;  it  wasn't  very  bad.  Mrs.  Seward  gave 
me  permission  to  come  down  to  Chapel." 

"  You're  not  going  into  school  to-day  ?" 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  said  Julia,  hesitatingly, 
"  whether  Louie  Atterbury  is  better?  Did  you  see 
her?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I've  been  sitting  by  her  since  eleven 
o'clock.  I  believe  they  think  she's  better — at  least, 
the  doctor  does.  Mrs.  Seward  doesn't  say  much, 
but  I  think  it  worries  her  that  the  fever  keeps  so 
high.  But  she  thought  it  was  a  good  sign  when 
Louie  knew  me." 


198 


louie's  last  teem. 


"  Why !  is  she  delirious  ?" 

"  Yes.  She  has  not  recognized  anybody  before ; 
and  even  now,  though  she  makes  me  sit  by  her  and 
keep  hold  of  her  hand,  I  don't  think  half  the  time 
she  thinks  it's  me." 

"  Oh,  Frances !  I  had  no  idea  it  was  as  bad  as 
that." 

"  Yery  likely  she'll  be  better  when  she  wakes  up. 
She's  dozing  now." 

They  separated  at  the  Chapel  door,  and  each  one 
went  to  her  accustomed  seat.  Julia,  as  she  rose 
from  her  knees,  took  up  Louie's  worn  and  ill-used 
little  Prayer-book,  that  lay  on  the  bench  as  she  had 
laid  it  down  last  night.  Poor  Louie !  it  might  be 
long  before  she  could  come  to  Chapel  again.  Julia 
missed  her  sorely,  though  they  had  been  so  much 
separated  of  late.  She  began  to  see  how  fond  she 
wras  of  her — how  much  more  she  cared  for  her  than 
for  any  one  else.  Laura,  so  beautiful  and  good, 
did  not  fill  Louie's  place  in  her  heart;  nor  Miss 
Emily,  perfect  as  she  believed  her  to  be,  nor  Alice, 
pet  and  darling  as  she  had  always  been ;  nobody 
could  fill  Louie's  place — reckless,  heedless,  self- 
willed  Louie.  This  was  no  time  or  place  to  remem- 
ber her  faults  or  her  unkindnesses.  Julia  only  re- 
membered her  honesty  and  spirit,  and  the  generous 
and  unselfish  love  she  had  so  long  shown  for  her. 


FRANCES. 


199 


She  only  remembered  her  own  share  in  the  mis- 
understandings that  had  given  them  both  so  much 
pain — her  own  pride  and  reserve  and  want  of 
gentleness.  Oh !  if  she  could  only  see  her  for  a 
moment — only  ask  her  to  forgive  her;  she  never 
could  be  happy  till  she  did.  She  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  her,  lying  there  suffering  and  ill,  while  she 
was  well  and  strong ;  poor  Louie !  not  able  even  to 
say  her  prayers,  perhaps — not  able  to  say  a  word  to 
defend  herself  from  the  accusations  of  her  enemies, 
or  the  wrong  judgments  of  her  friends. 

There  were  not  very  many  in  Chapel  that  day, 
indeed,  the  mid-day  service  was  never  very  largely 
attended.  It  was  a  voluntary  service,  and  took  up 
more  than  half  of  the  short  recess  allowed  at  noon, 
and  between  the  demands  of  study,  and  the  desire 
for  recreation,  but  a  small  proportion  of  the  large 
school  found  their  way  into  the  quiet  Chapel.  Bat 
to  those  who  did,  it  was  the  sweetest  service  of  the 
day — a  lull  in  its  busy  turmoil — a  momentary  break 
in  the  business  and  pleasure  that  none  are  too 
young  to  find  engrossing — a  respite  and  refresh- 
ment that  none  ever  failed  to  find  the  benefit  of. 
The  teachers,  the  older  girls,  the  communicants, 
and  a  few  stragglers,  generally  formed  the  number. 
Louie  almost  always  came ;  why,  she  could  hardly 
have  told.    Yery  often,  before  twelve  o'clock,  she 


200 


louie's  last  term. 


thought  she  would  dispose  otherwise  of  her  recess, 
either  resolving  to  have  a  romp  in  the  grounds  with 
some  of  the  rompingly  inclined,  or  a  quiet  half-hour 
in  the  schoolroom  to  look  over  her  afternoon  les- 
sons, or  a  few  stolen  minutes  to  increase  the 
voluminous  weekly  letter  to  her  mother :  but  some- 
how, before  the  bell  stopped  ringing,  Louie  would 
find  herself  putting  away  books  and  portfolios,  and 
almost  involuntarily  following  her  graver  com- 
panions into  Chapel.  It  was  not  exactly  because 
she  liked  it,  though  she  could  not  help  being 
soothed  by  the  quiet  of  the  hour  and  service ; 
neither  did  she  look  upon  it  altogether  in  the  light 
of  a  duty;  she  had  neglected  greater  duties,  and  was 
continuing  to  neglect  them.  But  she  had  a  vague 
feeling  that  she  was  missing  something  that  was 
offered  to  her,  when  she  turned  her  back  upon  a 
holy  service ;  that  it  was  recorded  against  her,  if 
her  place  was  vacant  when  two  or  three  gathered 
together  in  His  name,  insured  the  fulfillment  of  the 
promise  ;  that  she  lost  a  blessing  when  she  yielded 
to  indolence  or  to  pleasure  or  to  profit,  and  stayed 
away.    In  short,  she  did  not  dare  to  do  it. 

Very  misty,  undefined  and  crude  her  notions 
were  perhaps ;  superstitious,  very  likely,  and  in  a 
way  incorrect.  But  maybe  they  were  better  than 
a  good  deal  of  the  enlightenment  that  one  some- 


FRANCES. 


201 


times  sees  in  older  and  wiser  people,  an  enlighten- 
ment of  which  one  cannot  but  feel  the  coldness  and 
insufficiency,  when  tested  by  the  requirement, 
"  Except  ye  become  as  little  children  ;" — for  the 
Kingdom  we  are  all  striving,  or  pretending  to 
strive,  to  enter  into,  can  hold  no  selfish  heart,  no 
half-way  sacrifice,  no  unconquered  ambition,  no 
uncrucified  affection — only  the  utter  love  of  loving 
children,  the  simple  faith  of  believing  children,  the 
self-renunciation  of  dutiful  children,  the  prostrate 
reverence,  if  you  will,  of  superstitious  children. 
God  Himself  will  enlighten  all  such  ignorance,  will 
make  theirs  a  more  "  perfect  day"  for  the  clouds  of 
humility  that  have  hung  about  the  dawn  ;  will  exalt 
them  none  the  less  for  having  abased  themselves. 

And,  sooner  or  later,  outside  the  gate  of  that 
Kingdom,  that  lesson  must  be  learned,  that  self- 
abasement  must  be  made.  Happy  they  who  learn 
it  at  the  outset,  whose  path,  however  weary,  is 
lighted  from  above,  whose  burden,  whatever  it  may 
be,  is  not  self-imposed  and  fruitless,  but  sent,  with 
strength  to  bear  it,  from  One  who  pities  them  as  a 
father  pitieth  his  own  children. 

Little  Frances  Chenilworth  had  "  learned  that 
sacrifice;"  more  than  any  other,  perhaps,  she  had 
got  rid  of  pride  and  love  of  self,  and  had  got 
instead  of  it,  the  love  of  God,  and  the  holiness  that 

9* 


202 


louie's  last  term. 


it  brings  into  the  soul.  Sweet  little  saint,  she  had 
died  unto  the  world  so  utterly  that  now  it  almost 
ceased  to  tempt  her ;  she  was  so  far  above  it  that 
its  vexations  and  its  allurements  scarcely  reached 
her  heaven-tuned  ear,  seldom  drew  down  her 
heaven-charmed  eye. 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  what  a  sweet  face  that 
Chenilworth  girl  has  ?"  whispered  Laura  Boutwell 
to  Julia  as  they  came  out  of  Chapel.  "  I  looked 
at  her  during  service,  and  I  am  sure  I  never  saw 
anything  lovelier ;  look  at  her  now — no,  it's  all 
gone.  She's  so  different  when  you  speak  to  her,  or 
when  any  one  is  looking  at  her." 

"  Do  you  know,"  '  said  Julia,  "  it  sometimes 
strikes  me  that  we've  been  very  careless  about  her  ? 
Don't  you  think  she'd  like  to  be  friends  with 
some  of  us  ?  She  seems  so  lonely,  it  worries 
me." 

"  She's  so  shy,  how  can  one  get  friends  with  her. 
Just  watch  her  now,  shrinking  out  of  sight  and 
stealing  back  to  the  nursery.  There  !  Miss  Stan- 
ton sees  her,  and  has  stopped  her.  Poor  little  mite, 
how  miserable  she  looks,  blushing  and  scared  at  the 
least  word.  How  odd  it  must  be  to  be  so  afraid  of 
people." 

"  What  can  Miss  Stanton  be  saying  to  her,  to 
make  her  so  nervous.    She  can't  be  scolding  her, 


FRANCES. 


203 


the  teachers  never  scold  her.  I  wish  it  weren't 
wrong  to  go  near  enough  to  hear." 

Julia's  scruples  were  soon  settled  by  Miss  Stan- 
ton, who  turned  toward  them  and  called  them  to 
her.  She  laid  her  hand  kindly  on  Frances'  shoul- 
der as  she  said : 

"  Can  either  of  you  help  this  little  girl  in  telling 
me  about  what  occurred  in  the  playground  this 
morning  ?  I  want  to  understand  how  she  came  to 
be  so  great  a  sufferer  in  the  affair.  She  is  not 
generally  boisterously  inclined,  I  think,  and  it  seems 
odd  to  me  that  she  should  have  met  with  such  a 
severe  accident  from  her  own  carelessness.  Were 
you  out  in  the  grounds  at  the  time,  Laura  ?" 

"  It  was  my  hour  for  practising,  ma'am.  I  was 
in  the  house  all  the  morning." 

"  I  was  there,  Miss  Stanton,"  Julia  said,  as  Miss 
Stanton  turned  interrogatively  toward  her.  "  I 
was  studying,  but  the  girls  were  playing  a  good 
way  off,  and  I  didn't  know  anything  of  what  had 
happened  till  I  saw  Mrs.  Seward  hurrying  out,,  and 
I  followed  her,  and  found  that  Frances  had 
fainted." 

"  Frances,  do  you  often  play  tag,  child  ?  Do  you 
love  to  romp  ?v 

Frances'  head  was  in  that  particular  attitude 
that  the  top  of  it  alone  was  visible ;  and  that 


204 


louie's  last  term. 


portion  being  the  least  expressive  of  the  entire  sur- 
face, it  followed  that  Miss  Stanton  was  not  much 
enlightened  by  her  study  of  it.  Neither  was 
there  much  to  be  gained  from  the  faint,  incoherent 
responses  that  her  inquiries  elicited,  so  with  a  shake 
of  the  head,  she  said  as  she  dismissed  them : 

"  I  see  Frances  does  not  mean  to  tell  me  what  I 
want  to  know,  but  I  am  sure  it  will  come  out  some 
way." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Julia,  in  a  low  tone,  following 
her  to  the  stairs,  "wasn't  Adelaide  teasing  you? 
Wasn't  it  her  fault  ?    I  know  it  was." 

"  Oh  don't — please  don't !"  and  Frances  turned 
toward  her  with  a  look  of  entreaty.  "  If  you  only 
knew  how  wretched  it  makes  me  to  be  asked,  you 
wouldn't  do  it  yourself,  nor  let  the  others  do  it.  I 
don't  mind  about  the  pain — it's  no  matter  how  it 
happened — why  will  they  tease  me  when  it  don't 
make  any  difference  to  them  how  it  happened.  I 
am  so  afraid  they'll  make  me  tell.  They'll  know  I 
dare  not  disobey." 

"  They  won't  if  they  know  you're  so  unhappy 
about  it,"  said  Julia,  earnestly.  "  Nobody  could 
have  the  heart  to  be  severe  with  you  ;  I  know  Miss 
Stanton  couldn't,  she  likes  you  better  than  any  of 
us.  Depend  upon  it,  she  won't  ask  you  another 
word,  now  she's  seen  how  you  feel  about  it.  I'm 


FRANCES. 


205 


sure  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  hush  it  up,  and  keep  the 
girls  from  plaguing  you  with  questions ;  and  don't 
be  afraid  of  hearing  anything  about  it,  if  you  are 
well  enough  to  come  into  class  to-morrow.  Sit  by 
me,  won't  you  ?" 
"  Thank  you." 

"  And  Laura  likes  you  so  much,  it  would  be  so 
nice  if  you  would  walk  with  us  on  the  bank  some- 
times !" 

"You're  very  kind." 

"  But  you  will,  won't  you  ?  I  am  sure  we  should 
be  good  friends,  I've  often  thought  so  in  Chapel. 
And  since  you  like  Louie  too,  it  seems  as  if  I  knew 
you  better.  You  can't  think  how  much  I  miss  her. 
You  don't  really  think  she's  very  sick  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  not  much  used  to  seeing  sick 
people ;  I  hope  not,  but  anyhow,  she's  very  miser- 
able, and  I'm  very  sorry  for  her." 

"Frances,  I'd  give  anything  to  go  in  and  see  her." 

"  Wouldn't  Mrs.  Seward  let  you,  don't  you 
think?" 

"  If  you  would  only  ask  her  "  

"  Come  then,  before  the  bell  rings ;"  and  Julia 
followed  Frances  to  the  nursery  door,  and  stood 
anxiously  waiting  outside  it,  while  she  went  in  to 
beg  the  desired  permission.  There  was  a  whis- 
pered consultation,  and  then  Mrs.  Seward  came 


206 


louie's  last  term. 


out,  and  Julia  read  her  sentence  in  her  kind,  pity- 
ing face. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  my  dear  child !"  she  said,  taking 
her  hand.  "  I  can  understand  how  you  feel,  and  I 
wish  it  were  right  to  let  you  see  Louie  for  a  little 
while ;  but,  you  see,  she  is  in  just  that  state  that 
any  excitement  might  do  her  a  great  deal  of  harm. 
The  doctor  said,  an  hour  ago,  that  no  one  had  bet- 
ter be  about  her  but  myself,  and  little  Frances,  who 
is  soft  and  quiet  as  a  shadow,  and  by  whom  Louie 
seems  most  easily  soothed  ;  so  I  have  sent  the  nurse 
away,  and  do  not  mean  to  have  any  one  else  in  the 
room,  unless  I  find  it  necessary  at  night.  I  confess 
this  is  an  anxious  day  with  me,  but  I  trust  by 
to-morrow  there  will  be  so  great  an  improvement 
as  will  set  all  our  fears  at  rest.  Don't  look  so  dis- 
tressed, my  child — I  may  exaggerate ;  the  doctor  is 
not  alarmed  as  yet.    This  is  a  sudden  attack,  but 

she  is  strong  and  young    There  !    Oh,  why 

will  they  ring  the  bell  so  loud  !  Run  down,  dear, 
and  tell  thern  not  to  come  in  this  part  of  the  hall, 
the  next  half-hour." 

The  bells  rang  cruelly  to  Julia's  ears,  though, 
after  that,  even  in  the  furthest  extremity  of  the 
hall,  and  the  girls  laughed  cruelly  loud  and  care- 
lessly; for  her  own  heart,  muffled  in  its  great  dread, 
trembled  even  at  its  own  quick  beating. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 

"  In  face  of  a  great  sorrow  like  to  death, 
How  do  we  wrestle  night  and  day  with  tears; 
How  do  we  fast  and  pray ;  how  small  appears 
The  outside  world,  while,  hanging  on  some  breath 
Of  fragile  hope,  the  chamber  where  it  lies 
Includes  all  space." 

Miss  Muloch. 

Before  noon  the  next  day,  it  was  known  all  over 
the  school  that  Louie  Atterbury  was  very  ill — so 
ill,  indeed,  that  there  had  been  two  doctors  upstairs 
half  the  morning,  that  Mrs.  Seward  never  left  her 
bedside,  and  that  prayers  had  been  said  for  her  in 
Chapel.  There  was  a  hush  over  everything.  No 
bells  were  rung  throughout  the  house,  and  the 
teachers,  grave  and  silent,  checked  the  slightest 
noise  or  hurry  in  going  from  class  to  class.  You 
would  hardly  have  known  it  for  the  same  place  as 
yesterday,  if  you  had  been  there  at  the  noon  recess. 
There  were  three  times  as  many  girls  in  Chapel  as 
there  had  been  the  clay  before,  and  when  they 

20T 


208 


louie's  l  vst  teem. 


came  out,  though  most  of  them  collected  in  groups 
about  the  hall,  and  talked,  it  was  in  such  low,  seri- 
ous tones  that  they  hardly  sounded  like  school-girls' 
tones  at  all.  There  was  little  or  no  playing  going 
on  anywhere  about  the  grounds.  Some  of  the 
younger  ones  were  trying  to  sustain  a  game  of  hide- 
and-seek  below  the  apple-trees,  but  it  soon 
languished,  and  one  after  another  fell  off,  and 
straggled  back  to  the  house,  and  hung  about  the 
skirts  of  their  elders  in  the  hall,  and  listened  to  the 
talking  that  was  going  on. 

For  indeed  there  was  a  good  deal  to  talk  about 
just  then — a  good  deal  to  excite  the  wonder  of  the 
curious  and  the  regret  of  the  well-disposed.  Besides 
the  natural  depression  caused  by  the  dangerous  ill- 
ness of  their  young  companion,  who,  with  all  her 
faults,  had  been,  in  a  certain  way,  of  consequence 
among  them,  and  was  more  missed  than  many  a  bet- 
ter girl  would  have  been,  there  had  come  out  some 
circumstances  that  roused  their  interest  very  keenly, 
and  produced  many  conflicting  opinions.  For  little 
Alice  Aulay,  as  was  to  be  supposed,  had  not  been 
able  to  hold  her  tongue,  and  all  that  Adelaide's 
threats  effected,  had  been,  in  her  great  remorse  and 
alarm  at  the  sight  of  Julia's  sorrow,  to  make  her 
blurt  out,  before  all  the  dormitory,  all  she  knew  of 
poor  Louie's  case,  and  all  her  own  penitence  for 


GATHERING-  GLOOM. 


209 


listening,  in  such  a  very  unequivocal  way,  that  in  a 
few  hours  the  whole  story  became  school  talk. 

It  was  a  story  that  those  who  were  in  authority 
would  fain,  just  now,  have  kept  quiet.  It  was  very 
painful  to  judge  harshly  of  the  poor  girl  who  lay 
just  trembling  between  life  and  death ;  it  was  very 
frightful  to  believe  the  worst  of  her ;  and  there 
was  no  one,  from  Miss  Barlow  up,  who  would 
not  thankfully  have  put  the  case  out  of  sight  at 
once,  and  till  there  was  some  change,  have  let  it 
rest  entirely.  But  this  the  little  tattler  had  made 
impossible  by  her  disclosures ;  and  Louie's  rebellion, 
disobedience,  falsehood,  were  discussed,  in  all  their 
bearings,  from  the  Primary  to  Senior  A.  Nothing 
else  was  thought  of,  nothing  else  was  talked  of.  No 
efforts  now  to  suppress  the  tale  could  have  proved 
at  all  effectual,  and  the  only  way  was  to  let  things 
take  their  course,  leaving  it  to  time  to  clear  all  up, 
and  hoping  always  for  the  best. 

Adelaide  McFarlane  paid  more  than  one  visit  to 
the  Study,  but  she  knew  how  to  hold  her  tongue, 
if  Alice  did  not ;  and  all  that  her  companions  had 
to  judge  from,  of  the  nature  of  her  interviews,  was 
the  unusual  paleness  of  her  face  and  nervousness  of 
her  manner,  when  she  came  out.  Adelaide,  indeed, 
was  very  far  from  being  happy  or  comfortable.  It 
,   was  something  very  much  like  remorse  that  made 


210 


louie's  last  term. 


her  wish,  now  Louie  lay  so  beyond  her  power,  that 
she  could  own  all,  and  get  it  off  her  conscience. 
But  she  had  gone  too  far  for  that;  she  was  so 
tangled  up  in  her  own  deceits  that  she  dared  not 
attempt  to  extricate  herself.  The  only  thing  she 
could  do  was  to  shut  her  eyes  to  all  thoughts  of  re- 
pentance, and  go  on  as  she  had  begun.  She  tried 
to  say  to  herself  confidently,  that  Louie  would  get 
well,  and  then  what  a  fool  she  would  have  made  of 
herself  for  nothing !  ]STo,  she  would  not  for  a  mo- 
ment allow  herself  to  think  there  was  any  real 
danger  of  her  dying.  If  there  had  been,  why  of 
course  she  wouldn't  have  dared  to  let  them  go  on 
thinking  as  they  now  thought  about  the  novel.  She 
hadn't  told  Miss  Barlow  that  Louie  was  reading  it, 
she  hadn't  told  a  lie  about  anything.  She'd  only 
said,  Louie  had  brought  back  a  good  many  books 
to  school  with  her,  and  so  she  had. 

And,  in  all  the  cross-questionings  she  had  to  go 
through  in  the  Study,  she  escaped  without  telling 
any  flagrant  falsehood — without  saying  anything 
for  which  she  could  not  find  an  excuse  for  herself 
and  a  palliation  afterward,  when  she  reviewed  her 
conduct.  Her  standing  in  the  school  was  very 
fair ;  her  word,  as  yet,  had  never  been  doubted,  so 
that  her  testimony,  faint,  evasive  as  it  was,  went  a 
good  way  toward  strengthening  the  conviction  of 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 


211 


Louie's  guilt,  that  pervaded  most  minds.  The 
teachers,  almost  all,  were  obliged  to  own  to  them- 
selves that  there  was  very  little  room  left  them  for 
doubt ;  and  the  girls,  though  at  first  they  had  ex- 
claimed against  the  possibility  of  Louie  Atterbury's 
untruthfulness,  had,  one  by  one,  come  round  to 
view  the  case,  as,  indeed,  it  seemed  impossible  not 
to  view  it.  How  could  they  help  believing  what 
was  so  clear — what,  in  fact,  everybody  believed  ? 

It  was  very  sad ;  it  was  terrible  to  think  that  she 
was  so  near  eternity  with  such  a  sin  upon  her  soul, 
and  without  the  power  to  repent  of  it ;  unconscious 
of  her  danger — insensible  alike  to  fear  and  sorrow. 
Even  the  most  thoughtless  were  in  a  degree  sub- 
dued by  this ;  it  was  better  than  ten  sermons,  to 
remind  them  how  near  Death  might  be  to  every 
one  of  them — how  stealthy  in  his  approach  he  was, 
and  how  much  it  behooved  them  that  that  approach 
should  not  surprise  them  in  sin.  Even  the  most 
careless  grew  pale  as  they  remembered  how  few 
hours  ago  it  was  that  the  girl  who  now  lay  dying, 
perhaps,  had  romped  with  the  wildest  among  them 
— had  been  as  careless  as  they,  and  thought  her 
hold  on  life  just  as  secure.  The  teachers  did  not 
fail  to  impress  this  lesson,  and  began  to  hope,  see- 
ing the  impression  made,  that  good  would  be 
brought  out  of  all  this  seeming  evil,  and  from  poor 


212 


louie's  last  term. 


Louie's  sin  and  sudden  punishment  might  be 
snatched  a  mercy  for  her  thoughtless  comrades. 

But,  in  the  meantime,  had  none  any  faith  left  in 
her?  Now  that  she  lay  upstairs  in  the  hushed 
and  darkened  nursery,  as  unconscious  of  past  or 
present  as  if  she  had  entered,  instead  of  neared,  the 
dark  valley,  had  all  resigned  all  care  for  her,  all 
belief  in  her  uprightness  ?  Her  high  spirit  was 
brought  down  so  low,  her  clever  brain  was  so 
clouded  with  the  stupor  of  fever,  her  words  were 
but  the  faint  and  incoherent  murmurs  of  delirium 
— it  seemed  cruel  that  she  should  be  left  to  defend 
herself — that  those  who  had  so  readily  shared  her 
affection  in  times  of  health,  should  desert  her  in 
this  her  hour  of  need.  Poor  child.  Perhaps 
though,  after  all,  it  mattered  little  to  her  then ;  the 
truest  and  tenderest  friend  can  go  but  a  little  way 
on  the  gloomy  road  on  which  she  seemed  entering, 
there  is  but  one  sort  of  Love  that  can  avail  much 
then, 

"Since  all  alone,  so  Heaven  has  willed,  we  die." 

But  all  had  not  forgotten ;  little  Frances  night 
and  day  beside  her,  and  Julia,  night  and  day  with 
a  prayer  for  her  on  her  trembling  lips  and  in  her 
aching  heart,  had  not  forgotten  and  could  not  for- 
get.   Never  for  a  moment  had  Julia  believed  her 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 


213 


guilty ;  anything  else  would  have  been  easier  to 
have  supposed  her  capable  of;  Julia  knew  her  truth 
and  honesty  too  well.  But  how  could  she  defend 
her  ?  How  could  she  convince  them  against  their 
own  senses,  against  what  seemed  so  certain  ?  Re- 
served and  shy  at  all  times — she  was  doubly  so 
now,  with  the  weight  of  this  dread  about  her,  the 
stifling,  choking  terror  that  this,  her  first  actual 
approach  to  real  grief,  inspired  her  with.  It  was  so 
bewildering  and  so  awful  to  think  that  Louie  might 
die.  She  had  thought  more  about  death  than  most 
girls  of  her  age,  she  knew  how  suddenly  it  had 
come  to  many,  how  suddenly  it  might  come  to  her, 
but  she  was  as  much  astounded,  as  much  stunned, 
when  she  met  its  actual  advance,  as  we  all,  wise  as 
well  as  foolish,  always  are.  It  can  never  strike 
such  terror  the  second  time,  it  may  come  in  a  worse 
form,  and  deal  as  deep  a  blow ;  but  we  know  some- 
what of  the  pain  we  are  to  bear ;  we  are  half 
familiar  with  the  suffering,  we  know  it  is  but  death 
after  all.  But  at  first,  the  awful  uncertainty,  the 
newness,  the  strangeness,  the  unsettling  of  all  on 
which  we  have  always  leaned,  the  sudden  darkness 
to  eyes  used  only  to  morning  light ;  what  pain  is 
there  like  this  ? 

Julia  had  no  word  of  defence  when  she  heard  her 
companions  whispering  over  Louie's  trouble  ;  even 


214 


louie's  last  term. 


when  Laura"  shook  lier  head  sadly,  and  said  she 
hated  to  believe  it,  but  there  seemed  no  help ;  she 
could  only  say : 

"  Tou  need  not  believe  it,  Laura.  You  ought  to 
know  her  better — she  never,  never  did  it — you  will 
all  know  some  day,  I  am  sure — you  will  all  be  sorry 
enough." 

As  for  Frances,  she  had  little  chance  to  know 
anything  of  what  was  going  on  outside  the  nursery. 
She  knew  but  vaguely  of  the  story  that  engaged 
the  interest  of  her  school-mates  so  strongly,  for 
even  after  she  was  well  enough  herself  to  go  down- 
stairs, she  had  not  the  heart  to  leave  Louie,  who 
had  clung  to  her  so  tenaciously.  Now,  alas !  she 
was  beyond  even  the  bewildered  recognition  she 
had  then  shown,  but  Frances  could  not  bear  to  go, 
and  had  begged  so  earnestly  of  Mrs.  Seward  that 
she  might  be  allowed  to  remain  and  watch  her, 
that  the  kind-hearted  matron  had  not  been  able  to 
steel  herself  into  refusing.  Indeed,  few  people 
ever  refused  Frances  anything ;  the  teachers,  one 
and  all,  treated  her  with  the  extremest  gentleness 
and  consideration,  and  she  was  now  allowed  to  do, 
what  to  no  one  else,  perhaps,  would  have  been  per- 
mitted. 

How  often  now  Frances  thought  of  their  talk  in 
Miss  Emily's  room  ;  she  clung  as  a  last  hope,  to 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 


215 


what  Louie  had  then  said.  It  may  seem  strange, 
but  Frances  did  not  think  there  was  anything  terri- 
ble in  dying;  if  she  had  been  sure  of  one  thing 
about  Louie,  perhaps  she  would  have  envied  her. 
If  she  had  not  known  that  Louie  had  failed  to  pre- 
pare herself  for  death,  she  would  not  have  looked 
upon  what  now  gave  her  so  much  dread,  as  any- 
thing worse  than  a  short  parting  from  one  she  had 
begun  to  love. 

But  to  think  that  she  might  never  be  conscious 
again,  never  have  a  moment  to  repent,  never  have 
grace  to  say  a  prayer,  never  be  able  to  receive  the 
Sacrament  she  had  neglected,  this  was  what  filled 
her  with  such  dread  as  the  hope  of  Louie's  life 
waxed  fainter  and  fainter.  She  did  not  know  what 
the  girls  downstairs  knew ;  she  only  thought  of  that 
one  thing,  and  prayed  for  the  saving  of  her  com- 
panion's soul— while  the  rest  prayed — as  we  all 
pray,  showing  by  our  earnestness  that  the  frail 
body  comes  first  in  our  esteem. 

When  prayers  were  said  for  Louie,  Julia's  heart 
almost  died  within  her  at  the  last  clause  of  the 
petition ;  she  could  hardly  submit  to  say  it,  but  to 
Frances,  it  was  the  most  vital  part  of  all,  and  the 
part  on  which  her  earnestness  was  spent. 

There  is  not  any  need  of  prolonging  a  sad  story  ; 
on  Saturday  afternoon  (the  longest,  saddest  Satur- 


216 


louie's  last  term. 


day  that  any  one  ever  remembered  at  St.  Mary's), 
it  was  known  throughout  the  school  that  all  hope 
was  over,  the  doctors  had  said  there  was  no  longer 
any,  Louie  could  hardly  live  till  night.  Miss  Emi- 
ly had  come  downstairs  crying,  and  no  one  had 
dared  to  ask  her  anything,  they  all  knew  too  well 
wThat  it  meant;  but  going  into  the  school-room 
where  most  of  the  girls  were  sitting,  she  had  made 
an  effort  to  tell  them  the  sad  news,  and  then,  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  leaned  sob- 
bing against  a  desk. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  low  sobs 
and  broken  ejaculations  were  heard,  as  the  awe- 
struck children  began  to  realize  the  truth.  Two  or 
three  clung  weeping  around  their  teacher,  others 
older  and  more  self-controlled,  remained  in  their 
seats,  with  hardly  any  outward  show  of  emotion,  but 
with  none  the  less  of  genuine  sorrow.  Only  one, 
hastily  starting  up,  left  the  room  ;  it  was  Adelaide 
McFarlane. 

" Don't,  oh  Julia,  don't,  my  darling!"  sobbed  little 
Alice  on  her  knees  with  her  head  in  Julia's  lap. 
"  Oh,  don't  stare  so — don't  look  so  dreadfully ! 
Miss  Emily,  tell  her  not — Julia — J ulia,  look  at  me 
• — won't  you  speak  to  me!" 

"  Children,"  said  Miss  Emily  raising  her  head 
and  trying  to  command  her  voice,  "I  want  to  tell 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 


217 


you  something  else,  something  I  am  very  thankful 
to  have  to  tell  yon.  You  know  how  I  have 
dreaded,  how  we  all  have  dreaded,  that  poor  Louie 
would  never  be  conscious  of  her  state ;  but  about 
an  hour  ago,  it  became  evident  that  consciousness 
had  returned — she  recognized  Frances,  who  was  be- 
side her,  and  appeared  perfectly  herself.  It  was 
thought  best,  as  her  time  for  preparation  was  so 
short,  to  tell  her  the  worst  immediately.  Sh@  was 
dreadfully  overcome,  poor  child,  at  first,  but  in  a 
few  moments  asked  to  see  the  Bishop,  who  had 
been  by  her  nearly  all  day  and  who  had  only  left 
her  an  hour  before. 

And  children,  I  have  seen  him — -just  now,  as  he 
came  out  from  the  nursery.  He  is  sure  of  one 
thing,  and  we  must  be  sure  he  knows,  that  dear 
Louie  is  fit  for  the  holy  rite  he  means  to  adminis- 
ter. They  dare  not  put  it  off  any  later,  so  he  is 
coming  back  at  six,  to  confirm  her,  and  administer 
the  holy  communion.  Let  me  add  one  thing — 
though  it  is  painful  to  touch  on  it  ever  so  slightly 
at  such  a  time  as  this.  The  Bishop  has  the  firmest 
confidence  in  the  integrity  of  your  companion,  and 
his  judgment  will  have  the  greatest  weight  with 
you  I  know,  and  will  be  the  greatest  comfort  to 
you.  Whatever  sad  doubts  we  may  have  had  before, 
I  need  not  say,  should  be  put  out  of  our  minds 

10 


218 


louie's  last  term. 


now.  Let  the  poor  child,  whose  moments  are  so 
few,  have  all  our  prayers,  and  all  our  tenderest 
thoughts." 

That  was  a  solemn  hour.  The  afternoon  sun  was 
sinking  rapidly,  and  the  hands  of  the  school-room 
clock  were  approaching  six.  The  house  was  very 
still ;  Miss  Wells  had  taken  the  younger  children 
all  out  to  walk,  and  the  older  ones,  by  common, 
though  tacit  consent,  had  remained  together  in  the 
school-room. 

"It  was  like  church,"  Alice  Aulay  whispered, 
seeking  refuge  at  last  with  Eva  Leonard ;  for  Julia 
sat  so  still,  her  face  so  deadly  white  and  her  hands 
so  cold,  that  the  little  girl  was  awed  and  uncom- 
fortable. She  had  refused  to  leave  her  side  when 
the  other  children  had  gone  out  to  walk,  and  had 
clung  around  her  for  a  long  while.  But  Julia  had 
taken  no  notice  of  her  caresses,  had  seemed  almost 
unconscious  of  them ;  and  little  Alice,  as  the  shock 
of  Miss  Emily's  news  began  to  wear  away,  wished 
heartily  that  she  had  not  stayed  at  home.  "Why 
hadn't  she  gone  with  the  others  ?  It  was  so  dread- 
ful here,  the  girls  all  crying  and  everything  so  still, 
Julia  so  wretched  and  nobody  to  speak  a  word  to. 

By  and  by  she  slid  down  from  her  seat,  and  crept 
slowly  and  softly  over  to  Eva  Leonard. 

Eva  sat  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  school-room, 


GATHERING  GLOOM 


219 


her  desk  was  by  the  last  window,  and  her  chair 
against  the  closets  that  ran  across  the  apartment. 
She  was  leaning  her  head  against  the  window,  her 
eyes  very  red  with  crying,  when  she  saw  Alice 
coming  toward  her.  She  made  a  place  for  her 
beside  her,  and  passed  her  arm  affectionately 
around  her  waist,  stooping  down  and  whispering  a 
few  kind  words  in  her  ear. 

Poor  little  Alice  felt  her  terror  very  much 
thawed  by  the  warm-hearted  Eva's  sympathy,  and 
presently  was  emboldened  to  ask  her  if  she  hadn't 
any  pictures  in  her  desk  that  she  might  look  at. 
Eva  softly  raised  the  lid  of  her  desk  and  looked, 
but  she  found  upon  investigation  that  there  was 
not  anything  at  all  picturesque  in  it.  She  made  an 
interrogatory  gesture  toward  her  slate,  but  Alice 
shook  her  head.  Slates  savored  too  much  of  sub- 
traction, into  which  rule  she  had  recently  entered, 
and  which  she  entirely  loathed  ;  it  would  be  worse 
than  sitting  still  to  play  with  what  had  been  but 
yesterday  instruments  of  torture. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  whispered  Eva,  "  you  shall  put 
my  work-box  in  order  for  me,  and  I'll  give  you  the 
empty  spools." 

Alice  brightened,  said  yes,  and  taking  the  work- 
box  in  her  lap,  slid  off  the  chair,  and  seated  her- 
self Turkish  fashion  on  the  floor  at  Eva's  feet.  She 


220 


louie's  last  term. 


emptied  the  contents  of  the  box  in  her  lap,  and  with 
a  very  feminine  sense  of  enjoyment  began  its  rear- 
rangement and  restoration  to  order.  The  amuse- 
ment was  not  a  short-lived  one,  she  made  the  most 
of  every  item,  bestowed  much  care  and  thought 
upon  the  proper  securing  of  ends  in  the  matter  of 
floss  silk  and  spool  cotton,  and  made  great  capital 
of  a  hank  of  tangled  thread  that  she  had  found 
jammed  down  in  one  of  the  partitions.  But  the 
most  faithfully  nursed  job  must  end  at  length,  and 
Alice  could  find  no  more  to  do,  so  lifting  the  open 
box  up  in  her  hands  to  Eva,  she  asked  her  if  it 
would  do. 

Eva  said,  "Yes,  indeed,  it  looked  beautifully,"  it 
hadn't  looked  so  nicely  sinee  she  came  back  to 
school. 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  these  snips  and  papers  ?" 
whispered  Alice  showing  a  handful  of  rubbish  in 
her  apron. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  you'd  better  run 
down  and  put  them  in  the  dust-bin." 

M  I  can't,  I  hate  to  go  out  of  the  school-room ; 
they'll  all  look  at  me  so.  Can't  you  throw  'em 
out  of  the  window  VJ 

"  No,  1  had  a  dreadful  scolding  last  week  for 
throwing  papers  into  the  yard.    I  daren't  do  it." 

"  Oh,  look  here  Eva !"  and  Alice  became  ener- 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 


221 


getic  in  manner.  "  -Can't  I  throw  'em  into  the 
closet  here  ?  There's  a  lot  of  rubbish  in  it  already, 
nobody  uses  it." 

"  I  suppose  you  can,"  Eva  said,  carelessly.  "  It 
doesn't  signify." 

Eva  thought  it  didn't  signify,  but  in  a  strange 
sort  of  a  way,  it  did  signify.  She  turned  her  face 
away,  and  leaning  again  against  the  frame  of  the 
window,  looked  listlessly  out.  The  beautiful  after- 
noon sunshine  lay  golden  on  the  trees  and  grass, 
but  no  one  had  the  heart  to  enjoy  it  now.  The 
slanting  shadows  told  that  the  sunshine  was  going ; 
and  the  darkness  that  fell  after  it — how  long  it 
would  be  to  poor  Louie !  The  thoughts  that  this 
suggested  made  Eva  lean  down  on  the  desk  and  put 
her  hands  before  her  face. 

Presently  she  was  roused  by  Alice,  who  pulled 
her  dress  and  whispered,  "  Look  what  I've  found. 
Did  you  know  it  was  there  ?" 

Eva  said  "  no,  dear,"  and  only  glanced  indiffer- 
ently at  the  dusty,  ink-stained  book  that  Alice  held 
up  toward  her.  Alice,  very  much  interested, 
clambered  into  the  chair  she  had  before  vacated, 
and  leaning  on  her  elbows  on  the  desk,  spelled 
over  the  title  page  of  the  volume,  and  dusted  it 
with  the  wrong  side  of  her  white  apron. 

"  Just  look,  please,  Eva,"  she  said  at  length,  puV 


222 


louie's  last  term. 


ling  her  companion's  sleeve.    "  Can  you  make  out 

the  name  here  on  the  blank  leaf  ?    L  L  , 

isn't  that  meant  for  an  L  ?  I  wish  I  could  read 
writing." 

Eva,  too  good  natured  to  neglect  the  little  girl, 
made  an  effort  to  attend  to  her,  and  stooping  over 
the  book  said  absently,  hardly  knowing  what  had 
been  the  child's  question  : 

"Who  does  the  book  belong  to,  dear?  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it." 

"  Why  there's  a  name  in  it ;  see  if  you  can't  read 
it." 

Eva's  attention  needed  no  further  rousing,  for 
she  had  caught  sight  of  the  name  on  the  first  blank 
leaf: 

"  LOUIE  ATTERBURY  FROM  HER  MOTHER." 

"  Poor  Louie  !"  thought  Eva,  as  the  tears  rushed 
into  her  eyes. 

"Whose  is  it?  What  makes  you  cry?"  de- 
manded Alice. 

"  Oh,  Alice  !  it's  Louie's  book — =dear  Louie's ;  I 
wonder  how  it  came  there.  Did  you  find  it  in  the 
bottom  of  the  closet  ?" 

uYes,  ever  so  far  back,  and  there  was  a  piece  of 
paper  all  covered  with  ink  too,  and  a  stained  pocket- 
handkerchief  :  see,  there's  the  handkerchief." 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 


223 


Alice  shook  the  dust  off  of  it  and  handed  it  to 
Eva.    "There's  a  name  in  the  corner,"  she  said. 

Though  the  pocket-handerchief  was  soaked  with 
ink,  there  was  just  enough  of  one  corner  clear  to 
let  the  name  be  distinguised : 

"A.  McFarlane." 

"I  wonder  how  that  came  there."  And  Eva 
paused  perplexed.  Her  few  moments  of  delibera- 
tion resulted  in  a  determination  to  take  the  book 
and  handkerchief  to  Miss  Emily,  who  was  sitting  at 
the  raised  desk  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Beside 
her  sat  Miss  Barlow,  who  had  just  come  in,  and 
Laura  and  Georgy  were  standing  by  them,  talking 
in  whispers.  Going  softly  down  the  room,  Eva 
approached  the  desk,  and  leaning  over  it,  said : 

"Miss  Emily,  look  at  this  book.  It  has  poor 
Louie's  name  in  it ;  Alice  found  it  in  the  closet, 
below  there." 

Miss  Emily  stretched  out  her  hand  for  it. 
"  From  her  mother,"  she  read  in  an  unsteady  voice 
— "  Her  poor  mother  little  dreams  "  

Miss  Barlow  with  a  very  pale  face,  bent  nerv- 
ously down  to  read  the  name. 

"  How  came  it  in  the  closet  ?"  she  asked,  huskily. 

"  I  don't  know — here's  a  handkerchief  of  Ade- 


224 


louie's  last  term. 


laide  McFarlane's  that  was  with  it.  Alice 
says  "  

"  There  comes  the  Bishop,"  said  Georgy  in  a  low 
tone,  glancing  out  of  the  window.    "  Is  it  six  yet?" 

The  school-room  clock  that  moment  began  strik- 
ing. Eva  sat  down  at  the  platform  at  Miss  Emily's 
feet,  and  Georgy  leaned  her  head  on  Laura's 
shoulder,  wThispering : 

"  I  wish  they'd  let  us  go  into  Chapel.  It  seems 
as  if  we  ought  to  be  there — praying  with  them 
upstairs." 

It  was  so  extremely  still,  every  one  in  the  school- 
room heard  the  Bishop  as  he  left  the  study  and 
passed  through  the  hall,  and  upstairs  to  the  nursery. 
Not  many  minutes  of  such  silence  elapsed,  when, 
with  hardly  movement  and  noise  enough  to  break 
it,  Frances  Chenilworth  entered  at  the  open  door. 
She  put  her  hand  a  moment  before  her  eyes  as  if 
the  light  hurt  them,  then  came  down  the  room. 

She  looked  paler  than  ever,  and  there  was  a 
strange,  solemn  light  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  had  been 
away  from  earth.  JSTo  one  could  have  defined  it, 
but  every  one  felt  it,  and  watched  her  with  a  sort 
of  reverence. 

How  different  from  the  day  when  she  had  shrunk 
in  terror  from  their  gaze.  She  had  forgotten  all 
about  it,  if  they  had  not. 


GATHERING  GLOOM. 


225 


"  I  have  come  for  Julia,"  she  said,  in  her  clear 
simple  voice.    "  Louie  wants  her." 

"  Julia,  dear,"  said  Miss  Emily,  going  up  to 
where  she  sat,  her  face  bowed  in  her  hands, 
trembling  violently.  "  Julia,  do  you  hear  what 
Frances  says  ?    Will  you  go  ?" 

She  raised  her  head,  and  making  a  great  effort 
to  control  herself,  arose  slowly  and  took  Frances' 
offered  hand. 

"Wait  one  moment,"  Miss  Emily  said  quickly. 
"Frances,  here's  a  book  of  Louie's  that  has  just 
been  found.  Do  you  suppose  it  can  be  the  one — 
the  one  she  has  been  talking  about  since  she  has 
been  sick  ?" 

"  The  little  £  Sacra  Privata '  her  mother  gave 
her?    Yes — oh,  I  am  so  glad !" 

"It  was  found,  Frances,  in  such  an  odd  place,  in 
the  lower  part  of  that  closet  at  the  head  of  the 
room,  all  stained  as  you  see,  with  ink,  and  a 
handkerchief  and  a  piece  of  paper  soaked  with  ink, 
thrown  in  with  it !" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Frances  turned 
thoughtfully  the  pages  of  the  book  as  she  said  : 

"  Have  you  asked  Adelaide  about  it  ?" 

"  No — what  do  you  know  of  it  ?  Can  Adelaide 
tell  me  how  it  came  there." 

"  I  don't  know — yes — that  is — I  saw  her  throw 
10* 


226 


louie's  last  term. 


something  inky  into  that  closet  a  week  or  ten  days 
ago — one  morning  when  I  was  studying  down  there 
at  my  desk.  I  don't  know,  though  ;  perhaps  it 
wasn't  this — I  didn't  see  what  it  was — only  I  heard 
something  fall  in  among  the  papers  in  the  closet, 
and  when  1  looked  around,  I  saw  her  shutting  the 
door,  and  her  hands  were  stained  with  ink ;  but  it 
may  have  been  something  else." 

"  No,  Frances,  you  must  be  right,  her  name  was 
on  the  handkerchief  that  Alice  found  with  it. 
Come  with  me — I  will  take  this  up  myself  to  the 
Bishop." 

"I  wonder  where  Adelaide  is,  all  this  while," 
ejaculated  Eva  as  the  others  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XY. 


THE   EASTERN  DAWN. 

"  See'st  thou  the  eastern  dawn, 
Hearest  thou  in  the  red  morn 

The  angels'  song  ? 
0  lift  thy  drooping  head, 
Thou  who  in  gloom  and  dread 

Hast  lain  so  long. 

Death  comes  to  set  thee  free, 
0  meet  him  cheerily 

As  thy  true  friend, 
And  all  thy  fears  shall  cease 
And  in  eternal  peace, 

Thy  penance  end." 

At  the  nursery  door  they  paused  ;  "  Wait  till  you 
are  quieter,"  said  Frances,  uneasy  at  the  shudder- 
ing grasp  that  Julia  kept  upon  her  hand. 

"  She  will  feel  better  when  she  sees  her,"  said 
Miss  Emily,  soothingly.  "  It  is  only  the  strange- 
ness ~of  it  all  that  unnerves  her  so.  Eemember, 
Julia  dear,  it  is  nothing  so  terrible  for  Christians, 
it  is  only  a  short  parting.  Louie  has  prepared  her- 
self— you  will,  I  know,  try  to  help  her,  and  do 
nothing  to  increase  her  agitation." 

227 


228 


lottie's  last  term. 


"  I  am  ready — go  on,  Frances/'  whispered  Julia. 

"  And,  Frances,  ask  the  Bishop  to  come  out  a 
moment  and  speak  to  me.  I  will  not  detain  him 
long."  ■ 

The  Bishop  passed  them  on  the  threshold.  Julia 
clung  more  tightly  to  Frances'  hand  as  the  door 
closed  upon  them  and  they  stood  within  the  room. 
But  there  was  such  a  peaceful  look  about  every- 
thing— the  quiet  order  of  the  furniture,  the  Com  • 
munion  Service  on  the  table  near  the  bed,  and  such 
a  soft,  calm  light  coming  in  through  the  windows 
open  to  the  river,  that,  unconsciously,  she  was 
soothed. 

"  Is  it  Julia  ?    Hasn't  she  come  yet  ?" 

Miss  Stanton  leaning  over  the  pillar,  said  "  Yes, 
dear,"  and  beckoned  Julia  to  come  to  the  bed. 
Julia  let  go  Frances'  hand,  and  hesitatingly  ap- 
proached ;  the  patient  head  upon  the  pillow,  turned 
toward  her,  and  stretching  out  her  arms,  Louie 
said  her  name. 

Julia  stooped  down  toward  her,  and  for  a 
moment  there  was  such  a  troubled,  wistful  look  in 
Louie's  eyes  as  she  put  her  arms  around  her  neck. 

"  Oh  Julia !"  she  whispered  ;  "  have  they  tol(J 
you  ?  I  can't  get  well — I  am  going  to  die — I  try 
not  to  be  frightened — it  seems  so  strange — Oh  !  I— 
I  am  so  "  


THE  EASTERN  DAWN. 


229 


Julia  had  sunk  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and 
covering  her  face,  tried  in  vain  to  smother  her 
sobs. 

"Don't  cry  so — oh,  Julia!"  whispered  Louie, 
faintly.  "  Only  tell  me  you  forgive  me  all  the 
hateful  things  I've  done  to  you.  I  know  you  won't 
think  of  them  ever  again,  will  you  ?  I  know  it — but 
just  say  so — just  say  you  don't  mind." 

"  Oh,  Louie !  Louie !  I'd  give  the  world  if  we  could 
live  over  the  last  few  weeks  !" 

"  But  we  can't — we  can  only  Tve  sorry.  We're 
friends  now,  arn't  we  ?" 

Friends  ?  Yes,  that  close  embrace  meant  they 
were  friends  ;  friendship  is  never  so  sweet  as  when 
the  frost  of  death  has  touched  it.  Poor  children  ; 
they  cried  and  whispered  a  few  more  broken  con- 
fessions and  endearments,  and  then  a  faintness 
came  over  Louie,  and  Miss  Stanton  had  to  lead 
Julia  away,  and  leave  her  by  the  window  to  re- 
cover her  composure,  while  the  others  bent 
anxiously  over  the  bed. 

The  faintness,  however,  was  but  of  a  short  dura- 
tion ;  Louie  soon  opened  her  eyes,  and  though  every 
moment  showed  its  sure  decrease  of  vitality  and 
color,  there  was  yet  strength  and  vigor  enough  left 
to  make  it  almost  incredible  that  her  moments  of 
life  were  indeed  so  nearly  numbered.    Her  mind 


230 


louie's  last  term. 


was  perfectly  clear  now ;  it  was  evident  she  knew 
what  lay  before  her,  and  would  not  lose  one  of  the 
few  moments  that  remained  to  her. 

The  troubled  look  that  had  come  into  her  face 
when  the  meeting  with  Julia  had  brought  up  so 
strongly  all  her  ties  to  life,  had  passed  away,  and 
in  its  place,  an  earnest,  solemn  light  filled  her  eyes, 
not  altogether  peaceful,  but  faithful,  patient,  obe- 
dient. The  coming  struggle  was  uncertain  in  its 
length  and  fierceness,  the  armor  was  all  untried 
and  new,  the  clouds  that  hung  over  the  battle- 
ground were  dark  and  lurid ;  but  the  heart  of  the 
young  soldier,  though  sinking  sometimes  with  a 
deadly  fear,  owned  no  rebellion,  and  no  disloyal 
cowardice.  True  to  duty,  relying  on  Him  who 
had  promised,  utterly  obedient  and  unmurmuring, 
she  prepared  herself  for  the  dismal  conflict  with  the 
"  powers  of  darkness and  the  only  strength  that 
can  prevail  against  them,  was  made  perfect  in  her 
weakness. 

Some  time  passed  before  the  door  opened,  and 
the  Bishop  reentered  the  room ;  a  faint  sigh  of  relief 
escaped  her  lips  as  he  approached.  She  looked  to 
him  so  eagerly  and  wistfully  for  comfort,  that 
it  must  almost  have  pained  him  to  meet  her  eyes, 
and  realize  how  much  hung  upon  every  word  he 
spoke. 


THE  EASTERN  DAWN. 


231 


"  My  child,"  he  said,  bending  over  her,  "  before 
I  administer  the  Sacrament  that  supposes  charity 
with  all  the  world,  let  me  ask  you  :  Could  you  for- 
give a  great  wrong  done  against  yourself  by  any 
other  ?  I  know  you  have  forgiven  freely  all  the 
offences  of  which  you  know,  but  if  you  should  dis- 
cover something  else,  much  more  unkind  and 
unprovoked  than  anything  you  have  ever  experi- 
enced, could  you  say,  as  you  hope  to  be  forgiven  at 
God's  hands,  you  from  your  heart  forgave  and 
excused  it?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  be  angry  with  any  one 
now." 

"  Then,  Louie,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

A  very  few  moments  sufficed  to  explain  the  story 
to  her — the  Bishop  had  sent  for  Adelaide  and 
wrung  from  her  a  full  confession;  and  the  mise- 
rable girl,  waiting  outside  the  door  at  that  very 
time,  had  begged,  he  said,  in  an  agony  of  remorse, 
to  see  her  for  one  moment  and  ask  her  forgiveness. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  do  forgive  her,  I  am  not  angry  at  all. 
May  Frances  bring  her  in  ?" 

Before  Frances,  little  peace-making  messenger, 
had  returned  from  her  second  errand  of  love,  Louie 
gave  the  Bishop  one  grateful  look : 

"  You  believed  me  when  no  one  else  did — I  am 
so  glad  it's  all  clear  now." 


232  louie's  last  term. 

But  Adelaide  was  not  alone ;  when  she  hid  her 
face  and  turned  away  in  agony  from  Louie's 
whispered  pardon,  there  was,  if  possible,  a  whiter 
and  more  wretched  face  to  take  her  place. 

"  Louie,  I  have  been  most  unjust  to  you — most 
unkind.    Can  you  possibly  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  Miss  Barlow !  it  isn't  for  me  to  forgive, 
when  more  than  half  the  wrong  has  been  on  my 
side — don't  talk  about  that,  please — only  we  can 
both  be  sorry  that  we  were  not  gentler.  I  had  so 
little  time,  I  wonder  I  wasted  any  of  it  in  hating." 

"  Can  I  stay  ?"  she  asked  almost  inaudibly  as  the 
Bishop  turned  toward  the  open  Prayer-book  lying 
on  the  table.  She  sank  into  a  seat  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, but  Adelaide  shook  her  head  when  some  one 
asked  her  to  remain,  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

The  Bishop  and  Mr.  Rogers,  in  their  surplices, 
stood  beside  the  Communion-table,  Julia  and 
Frances  by  the  bed,  Mrs.  Seward,  Miss  Emily,  Miss 
Stanton  and  Miss  Barlow  at  a  little  distance. 
First,  the  rite  of  Confirmation,  then  the  administra- 
tion of  the  Holy  Communion;  and,  all  through 
their  lives,  there  was  not  one  of  that  narrow  circle 
who  ever  heard  those  two  offices  again  without 
remembering  that  scene,  the  peaceful  summer  even- 
ing, the  placid  river  gleaming  through  the  open 
windows,  the  white-robed  priests  within,  his  voicG 


THE  EASTERN  DAWN. 


233 


who  read  the  prayers,  Tier  face  for  whom  the  pray- 
ers were  said. 

At  first  her  eyes  eagerly  and  anxiously  searched 
the  Bishop's  face,  were  fastened  on  it  with  an 
appealing,  terrified  look,  that  made  more  than  one 
of  those  who  watched  her  turn  away  with  a  sort  of 
pain  ;  but  soon  a  gentler  expression  succeeded,  and 
then  a  holy,  happy  quiet  settled  on  her  face — so 
different  from  any  look  they  had  ever  seen  there 
before,  as  if  she  had  at  last  indeed  found  rest  unto 
her  soul,  as  if  the  snares  and  sins  of  her  way- 
ward childhood  had  at  last  unloosed  their  bands ; 
but  worn  out  with  the  long  struggle,  as  the 
heavy  shackles  fell  off,  the  tired  child  had  sunk 
down,  freed  and  happy,  but  weary  and  ready  to 
sleep. 

So  near  unto  the  Lord  had  all  hearts  been  lifted, 
that  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  last  words  of  the 
Benediction,  there  was  not  a  feeling  in  any  one 
that  could  have  borne  the  name  of  sadness.  For 
those  few  moments,  in  their  clean  and  prepared 
hearts,  there  was  reflected  a  vision  of  the  Heaven 
of  which  they  were  heirs  through  hope ;  till  the 
first  mist  of  earth,  a  breath  of  care,  a  cloud  of  doubt, 
crept  over  tl\e  mirror,  they  saw  what  awaited  the 
new-born  saint,  they  saw  what  was  the  real  life — 
what  the  only  death  to  fear.    For  those  few  mo- 


234 


louie's  last  term. 


merits  things  took  their  true  colors ;  they  saw  them 
as  we  all  shall  one  day  see  them, 

"  Looking  o'er  life's  finished  story." 

The  child  whose  dying  breath  fluttered  fainter 
every  minute,  was  not,  they  saw  then,  a  trembling 
wretch  torn  from  life  and  love  and  hope,  and  thrust 
into  the  coldness  and  terror  of  the  tomb  ;  but  a 
young  immortal,  led  tenderly  and  mercifully 
through  the  path  that  all  must  tread,  made  merci- 
fully short ;  crowned  earlier,  sooner  safe,  than 
they. 

For  a  few  moments ;  then  came  a  quick  gasp,  a 
low  cry  of  pain,  very,  very  low,  bmt  sharp  enough 
to  show  what  was  yet  to  be  gone  through.  It 
called  all  back  to  earth  from  the  peace  where  they 
had  been  resting. 

"  I  am  not  frightened,"  she  murmured  brokenly, 
holding  fast  the  hand  that  soothed  her.  "  I  am  not 
frightened — but — oh — sir,  tell  me  again,  help  me — 
I  can't  remember — say  it  for  me — '  the — the  sharp- 
ness of  death '  "  

"  When  thou  hadst  overcome  the  sharpness  of 
death,  thou  didst  open  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  to 
all  believers. 

"  Thou  sittest  at  the  right  hand  of  God  in  the 
Glory  of  the  Father. 


THE  EASTERN  DAWN. 


235 


"We  believe  that  thou  shalt  come  to  be  our 
Judge.  We  therefore  pray  thee  help  thy  servants 
whom  thou  hast  redeemed  with  thy  precious 
blood." 

Her  face  relaxed  its  look  of  pain  as  she  sunk 
back  upon  the  pillow.  She  opened  her  eyes  and 
whispered  faintly  as  the  Bishop  bent  over  her  : 

"  You  will  tell  mother  I  tried  to  be  brave  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  darling." 

"  And  that — that  leaving  her  was  all  that  was 
very  hard.  Tell  her  she  mustn't  mind — it's  only  6  a 
little  while'"  

There  was  a  look  stealing  over  her  features  that 
he  who  had  watched  by  so  many  death-beds  could 
not  mistake ;  and  still  holding  her  hand  in  his,  the 
Bishop  knelt  again  by  the  bedside,  and  read  the 
commendatory  prayer.  Before  it  was  over,  the 
hand  in  his  relaxed  its  hold,  and  when  he  raised 
his  head,  he  knew  that  the  face  before  him,  with 
its  sweet  radiance  of  peace,  had  felt  the  benediction 
of  angelic  hands,  and  that  the  saved  soul,  at  rest 
forever,  needed  his  prayers  no  more. 


CHAPTEE  XYI. 


IN  PEACE  BENEATH  THE  PEACEFUL  SKIES. 

"  But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes  ; 
A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies." 

A  stranger  stood  outside  the  churchyard,  lead- 
ing against  the  railing  and  watching  with  sternly 
controlled  and  motionless  face  the  long  train  of 
mourners  as  they  passed  out  of  the  lower  gate.  He 
was  near  enough  to  see  the  faces  of  those  who 
formed  the  procession,  the  classmates  and  com- 
panions of  the  young  girl  left  behind  under  that 
new  mound  :  and  at  first  he  turned  away  as  if  un- 
able to  bear  the  sight  of  their  youth  and  health, 
when  out  of  all  their  number,  the  only  one  he  cared 
for  had  been  struck  down ;  but  by  degrees  his 
glance  was  drawn  back  by  sympathy  with  the  grief 
they  showed — their  mourning  dresses  and  mourn- 
ing faces  did  not  mock  his  sorrow,  but  soothed  it, 
if  anything  can  soothe  sorrow  so  new  as  his. 

936 


IN  PEACE  BENEATH  THE  PEACEFUL  SKIES.  237 


He  had  arrived  too  late  to  hear  the  burial  service, 
or  see  the  sweet  young  face  now  shut  forever  from 
human  sight.  All  that  was  left  to  him  was  the 
empty  church  and  the  fresh-heaped  mound  and 
the  departing  mourners. 

He  had  not  heard  the  words  that  had  comforted 
them,  the  promises  that  had  taken  the  sting  out  of 
their  sorrow,  the  heaven-piercing  faith  that  had 
shown  them  the  victory  in  which  death  is  swal- 
lowed up,  the  blessedness  of  the  dead  that  die  in  the 
Lord,  the  glory  of  the  immortality  which  this  mor- 
tal shall  put  on,  the  power  of  that  Resurrection 
and  that  life,  in  which,  to  believe,  is  to  live  forever. 

But  alone  that  summer  evening,  in  the  quiet 
churchyard,  with  the  dead  of  yesterday  and  the 
dead  of  long  ago  at  his  feet,  Col.  Euthven  spent 
the  saddest,  but  perhaps  the  most  profitable  hour 
of  his  life.  By  the  grave  of  the  child  who  to  him 
had  been  the  brightest,  freshest,  most  living  thing 
in  all  the  world,  he  learned  the  frailty  of  the  life 
on  which  we  stake  so  much,  the  folly  of  all  happi- 
ness that  is  only  of  this  earth.  The  hopes  that 
died  with  her  left  a  dreary  blank  in  his  soul ;  but 
it  is  in  such  soil  that  Heaven's  graces  best  take 
root,  and  bear  most  lasting  fruit. 

Children  !  Don't  call  this  a  gloomy  story,  don't 
close  it  with  a  shudder,  and  put  it  away  with  a 


238 


louie's  last  teem. 


chill.  It  is  only  the  telling  that  is  at  fault ;  for 
how  else  does  life  end  ?  And  we  are  wont  to  be 
enough  in  love  with  that,  to  read  it  greedily  to  the 
last  page.  It  is  only  the  telling  that  has  failed  to 
reconcile  you  to  Louie's  winning  a  heavenly,  in- 
stead of  an  earthly  crown  ;  the  company  of  angels, 
in  exchange  for  the  coldness  and  harshness  and 
treachery  of  human  companionship ;  safety  for 
struggling — certain  victory  for  uncertain  combat — 
eternal  peace  for  fading  pleasure.  It  is  only  the 
telling  that  has  failed  to  show  you, 

"-How  happier  far  than  life  the  end 
Of  souls  that  infant-like  beneath  their  burden  bend  " — 

how  great  their  triumph  who  have  died  in  faith — 
how  pure  their  pleasure  who  are  safe  from  sin ! 

The  separation  ?  At  longest  it  is  but  "  a  little 
while" — a  little  sorrow  to  be  made  up  by  the 
fullness  of  joy  at  God's  right  hand  forevermore  ;  a 
little  pain  and  loneliness  to  be  forgotten  in  an  ever- 
lasting happiness,  that,  perhaps,  could  have  been 
purchased  at  no  other  price. 

Rest — safety — benediction — are  sweet  words  to 
those  who  have  found  how  unequal  and  how  dead- 
ly is  the  strife  with  sin ;  only  you,  the  cross  new  on 
your  foreheads  and  in  your  hearts,  too  young  to 
know  what  lies  before  you,  too  buoyant  to  fear  it 


IN  PEACE  BENEATH  THE  PEACEFUL  SKIES.  239 

if  yon  knew — only  yon  think  the  strife  is  better  than 
inaction — think  the  combat  has  a  promise  of  exul- 
tation. To  you,  perhaps,  it  would  seem  a  dire 
calamity  if  death  should  come  between  it  and  you, 
but  you  will  not  always  think  so.  You  will  learn 
to  see  God's  mercy  in  making  any  struggle  a  vic- 
tory, early  or  late,  in  crowning  any  life  with  im- 
mortality and  blessedness  and  honor. 


THE  END. 


mm 


